The Conjuror's Masque
by Tytania Strange
Summary: The Paris Opera is turned upside down when intrusions from fanfiction threaten Gaston Leroux's canon characters. When Christine is murdered, Carlotta matches wits with Erik, as the future of the novel hangs in the balance. Completed
1. Prologue

It was the day before the Paris Opera was to hold it gala, celebrating the retirement of the old managers, Debienne and Poligny- for us, a day that occurs within that nebulous space known as back-story. The reader would not join us until the night of the gala, when Christine Daaé would take my place and make her triumphant debut. However, like most novels, ours was based upon a series of events that must take place with any audience present. Somewhere in the basement of the opera house, Joseph Buquet was breathing his last, while Erik arranged for my inexplicable absence from the evening's entertainment.

I passed by the doorkeeper's table as I entered the opera house, and lightly brushed my fingers across the horseshoe that Sorelli had left to protect us all from the evil eye. Granted, Sorelli was a typical dancer, and by that I mean that she was about as intelligent as a chipped brick, so I didn't share her faith in the power of cold iron. All the same, when you for a fact that there is not merely a ghost present, but a ghost with homicidal tendencies and a twisted sense of humor, you don't risk offending the spirits. Although I felt foolish every time I did it, I touched the filthy, rusted metal each time I passed it.

It was business as usual at the Paris Opera. Of course, when you're trapped in a detective novel about a disfigured lunatic who falls in love with your understudy, usual is just another kind of strange. I left my hat and coat with the doorkeeper, since I would not be singing tonight and had no need to go tromping through the corridors to my dressing room. I would not be wearing a costume tonight, so there was no need to put one on now. There was a small pier glass at the side of the doorkeeper's box, which showed enough of my reflection for me to assure myself that my hair was still neatly in place and my dress was smooth and tidy. I am not as young as Christine Daaé, but I am not so very old either and one does not become the reigning diva of the Paris Opera by looking as bad as all that. I may not be twenty, but I am still attractive enough.

The new opera directors had scheduled a rehearsal for the gala tomorrow night- the gala I would inexplicably fail to attend. No one really knows why I don't show up, but it's absolutely critical that I'm absent. I usually spend the evening having a nice long bath and reading a good book. Not this book of course. I've had about as much of this book as I can stand. As I understand it, the reader is meant to assume that my absence has been somehow arranged by Erik, the opera ghost. However, Gaston Leroux never saw fit to specify precisely what happened, so we'll never know whether I am recovering from some mischief of Erik's devising, or what form that mischief might have taken.

Up until the gala evening, most of the characters in _The Phantom of the Opera_ are at liberty to do as they please, provided it won't interfere with the events of the plot later on. For example, Joseph Buquet cannot opt out of dying by torture, nor can I chain myself to my dressing room in protest. Rather than rock the boat, so to speak, we always spend the time before the gala having rehearsals, just to make sure that there won't be any problems other than my disappearance and subsequent replacement by Christine Daaé.

I walked down the dimly lit corridors, on my way to the stage via the wings. It's no wonder that rumors of ghosts flourished in a place like this, without or without help from a flesh and blood phantoms. The gas lights provided dim light that flicked in the open areas and cast ever-moving shadows in the corners and out-of-the-way places. I passed by property rooms where a menagerie of plaster animals stared at me with malevolent glass eyes and by the costume rooms where seamstresses added the final details to Marguerite's rather sumptuous peasant dress. The costume was supposedly mine, but I was not the one who would wear it onstage. From that, you can surmise that Christine Daaé and I must be close in size. In fact, we might well be interchangeable, except that she is blonde, innocent and twenty years old and I am … not.

The wings were crowded with people, although I didn't think anything of it. The Palais Garnier is always teeming with human life. There was a time when the government saw fit to dispose of a good portion of the unemployed populace by creating work for them at the opera house. You never know when you are going to run into someone who has been hidden away for the last several years, just in case someone might absentmindedly leave a door open. From time to time, they open the doors themselves, so that they can go back and shut them again. I suppose it passes the time.

For whatever the reason, the corps de ballet had decided against rehearsing in the ballet room. Apparently, they felt that more could be accomplished by standing about in the wings and getting into everybody's way. The scene-shifters were beside themselves because it seemed that whichever way they turned, there was a dancer loitering about where she ought not to be. Although I've never had a high opinion of the ballet rats, they were usually somewhat more professional than this. I threaded my way through the throng and took center stage.

I greeted the other principal singers and gave a nod to the maestro. Tonight, Gounod himself would be on hand to conduct his _Funeral March of a Marionette_, as well as excerpts from _Romeo and Juliette_ and _Faust_. _Romeo and Juliette_ is not part of the repertoire at the Paris Opera, but it was to be transferred to us from the Opera Comique and La Daaé had been assigned the page's song, since the selections from _Faust_ did not include her part, Siebel. However, for the time being, the rehearsal would be conducted by the chorus master, Gabriel. Well, you can hardly expect a famous composer to make a cameo appearance in an episode that doesn't even appear in the finished book.

At Gabriel's signal, we began the "Jewel Song", just as we had done innumerable times before, but something happened that had never happened before- something that would initiate a series of events that would change the course of our plot, perhaps forever!


	2. Murder Spelled Most Fowl er Foul

Before I could complete the opening line of Marguerite's famous aria, a backdrop fell from above, nearly knocking me senseless mid-trill. Luckily, Little Jammes saw it first and cried out. I stumbled out of the way, tripping on my heavy skirts, before the heavy set-piece struck me, and it was a lucky thing I did. Had I not moved out of the way, I could have been seriously injured or killed.

I crawled out from under the fallen scenery and Little Jammes helped me to my feet, as innumerable people came running from the wings. I looked up into the grid above us, where a jungle of ropes, pulleys, rollers and bridges controlled the mechanisms that transformed the stage from a little German village, to a beach in Africa to a street in Florence or to any other location a librettist could dream up. I thought I saw a shadow flicker across one of the bridges, but it was gone so quickly that I couldn't be sure that it wasn't a trick of the light or my own imagination.

The stage was now packed with choristers and ballet rats, which was also very odd, since the chorus is not involved in the gala at all. Nor had the chorus bothered to dress for the occasion. Most of them were wearing costumes, but they weren't costumes from Faust. It looked like they had mistakenly dressed for a production of L'Africaine, which to say that a kind person would have called their dress 'exotic' and I was inclined to call it 'garish.' They looked like they had mugged a caravan of affluent gypsies.

"Does anyone know what's going on?" asked little Jammes, who is fifteen years old and more than a little precocious. The rest of the ballet rats were twittering and squealing in supposed consternation- completely feigned in some cases if you want my opinion.

La Sorelli tells me that most of those girls are far more amused by the Opera Ghost's antics than you'd think proper.

Christine Daaé emerged from the wings, looking flustered. Her long, golden hair was all in pins and her dress hadn't been buttoned properly. "I'm not supposed to be here, am I?" The conductor shrugged, as if to say "don't look at me."

"I'm not even Carlotta's understudy yet! You don't think Erik is responsible, do you?"

This is also true. Christine Daaé was never my understudy and would not have been selected as my replacement without Erik's intervention. Erik does get around, doesn't he?

Without warning, the angel of music's voice floated up from the basement, "I've been down here minding my own business all morning. Can someone please explain why I can hear everything that happens onstage through the vents? It's horrendously irritating." The tone was somewhat less than angelic. More mystifying was that fact that Erik was making his voice heard by anyone other than Christine. Something was clearly very wrong.

Luckily, the new managers had just arrived. They would surely know what was happening. They looked at me, and then looked at each other, "Carlotta? Aren't you supposed to be leaving in a huff?"

"Why on earth would I do that?" I asked. "If I leave in a huff now, then you'll have time to call some other diva to sing the gala, instead of having Christine Daaé make her debut."

Monsieur Montcharmin knit his brow for a moment, and then relaxed, "You're right! How silly of us. Quite a relief to know that you're here and everything is following the plan, as it were, ahem! I don't suppose you remember what our names are?"

"The last I checked, you were Armand Montcharmin and Firmin Richard." I told them, but they didn't look at all convinced.

"You see," said Monsieur Richard, "We've been calling one another Firmin and Andre all afternoon. We're not quite sure if those are our first names or our last names--"

"Or which one of us is which!" Montcharmin chimed in.

This bizarre revelation made me pause for thought. These changes were likely to undo the entire plot of _The Phantom of the Opera_, in which case what would become of all of us? Without our novel, we didn't exist, and it seemed that our plot was starting to fray at the edges.

"I think we'd better gather the principal characters and have a conference about this," I said. "But first, we should send word to the De Chagny estate to make sure Raoul and his brother are alright."

As I turned to leave, a voice piped up from the chorus, "Christine Daaé could sing it sir!"

It was a ballet girl that I didn't recognize, in a costume that made me blush several shades of scarlet. Even a prostitute has more modesty than that.

"Christine Daaé could sing what?" asked M. Montcharmin looking even more perplexed than usual. He never did learn a thing about opera. The child had to be talking about Faust- the opera we had been rehearsing not two minutes ago.

"I don't know," admitted the new dancer, "I just needed to tell you that Christine Daaé could sing it. That's what's supposed to happen isn't it?"

"Well, thank you for your input, but I think we're all well aware that the heroine of our novel can sing. We cast her as Siebel, didn't we?"

"Let her sing!" cried someone else, "She has been well taught!"

M. Montcharmin was getting very upset indeed, "Well taught what and by who—"

"Whom," filled in M. Richard, forgetting that an editor could always fix the grammatical error at another time.

As M. Montcharmin sputtered and M. Richard quietly began to consult _The Elements of Style_ – which he always had on his person- one of the ballet girls stepped forward. She clearly was in no way ashamed of her interesting costume. I expect that ancient Sumerian whores weren't ashamed of those get-ups either but this was hardly the place for it. She stepped to the very front of the stage. She couldn't have been more than 16, with the kind of thin birdlike bones that hinted at a want of food. Her hair was her one great glory, and she wore it loose in a cascade of chocolate curls down her back.

"Let's begin from the aria, shall we?" said Gabriel, before he glanced down at his score and made a face. "Wait a minute, where is the aria? I thought this was _Faust_! All I have here is a sort of overwritten music hall ballad with limited range and a highly uninventive cadenza at the end." He and the concertmaster compared scores.

"This isn't opera at all," said the concertmaster, furrowing his brow in consternation, "Just listen to this, it isn't even scored for an orchestra." With that, he got up, walked over to the rehearsal piano and began to play.

The strange girl began to sing in a voice that was tremulous and difficult to hear. It wasn't a bad voice, simply the voice of a child who had never been trained at the opera. She struggled with the higher notes, her little, frail body twisting with strain as she fought to get the pitches out."

"Oh dear God, it's horrifying. The audience won't be able to hear her and when they do hear her, they will riot and kill us all. How are we supposed to star Christine Daaé in the gala when she can't even be heard from the first row. The audience will riot and kill us all." moaned M. Richard.

M. Montcharmin raised his hands in a gesture of supplication, "Please Opera Ghost, you must help us. If Christine Daaé doesn't sing tomorrow, we're doomed! We'll be lynched by enraged Parisian opera patrons! Drop another backdrop and hurry!!!"

"What are you talking about?" I asked, "This isn't Christine Daaé."

"But," the child insisted, "I am Christine Daaé!"

"That's impossible!" cried little Jammes. "The real Christine is right here!" Little Jammes turned to point to where the Swedish soprano has stood and uttered a piercing scream.

Christine Daaé was lying on the floor, dead as a doornail, with a Punjab lasso around her neck, a dagger in her heart, and strange footprints all over her clothes. The heroine of our novel had been murdered and murdered repeatedly and then the murderer has stomped on her… or possibly danced on her corpse, it was hard to tell.

A note was pinned to Christine's blonde hair. As Meg fell fainting into her mother's arms, I pushed my way through the crowd and knelt beside the body. The note read:

_OMG I totally did it because I am bad artistocrat rapist and evil boring and she totally loved Eric and I wear pink panties and stuff OMG! –signed, Raul, the Visconter of Change_

There was a general murmur of "OMG??? What does OMG mean???" until at last little Jammes yelled over the din, "It must be Opera Ghost!" This seemed to satisfy the crowd until someone with slightly better observational skills pointed out that Jammes had missed out the M.

"I've got it!" said Montcharmin or possibly Richard, "OMG means Opera Monsieur Ghost."

"Pardon me," I interrupted, "But wouldn't that be stupid… and redundant… and in flagrant disregard of actual French grammar?" That's not to mention the fact that it was contradictory to every single possible given in Gaston Leroux's plot. Raoul was the hero who loved Christine and had never tried to kill anyone other than Erik, much less succeeded at it.

"We could be in an English translation … a horrendously inept English translation." Richard suggested, or was it Montcharmin? It was getting a little confusing. All the same, he had a point… well almost. Whatever he had, it was spelled properly, which is more than we can say for the murderer's note. However, I very much doubted that a simple typo, or even a poor translation could be rend the plot quite so asunder.

Gabriel chimed in, "Well, whatever OMG actually means, it's clear from this note that Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny has murdered Christine Daaé several times over, probably because she found out about his pink panties and functional illiteracy. Let's get some torches and track down this murderer. He must be found!"

I put my hand to my head. The stupidity was giving me a headache. What was happening to everyone? Had they quite lost their minds?

"Who are we tracking down? I've got pistols and I can put my hand at the level of my eyes!" said a heroic voice from stage right. It was none other than our hero, Raoul de Chagny. His entrance was heroic, but his timing was less than stellar. Every head silently turned and stared at the sweet, blonde young man, who was quite beyond understanding the looks in their eyes.

"It's him!!!!!" screamed the mob, in a frenzy that could not be expressed properly without an excess of punctuation. "Get him!!!!!!!!"

"No!!" I cried, rushing to place myself between the innocent Vicomte de Chagny and the angry ballerinas, "You can't lynch the hero … At least not until the book is over!" It wasn't as especially good point, but it was a point nonetheless.

"Fine," said one of the scene shifters, "We'll just lock him up somewhere until the book is over and then we'll lynch him." There was a murmur of general agreement from the idiot mob. How could we continue the story with the heroine dead and the hero locked up? Why don't we elect Erik emperor and dance round the maypole while we're at it. It would do about as much good.

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" Raoul demanded. "What is going on around here? Where is Christine?" The anxiety in his voice made my heart tighten in my chest, but there was no time to mince words.

"Well," I said, regaining my composure, "Christine has been brutally murdered several times. The killer left a note and signed your name. Well, it might have been your name. I mean, it wasn't entirely unlike your name. So, anyways…" I looked around and then…

"Oh my God it's the Opera Ghost!" I screamed pointing into the rafters.

"The Ghost??? Where's the ghost?? Do you see the ghost??" said the crowd, every last one of them looking straight up into the rafters. Well, opera singers have never been all that bright, you know.

With the crowd conveniently distracted by their one-dimensional stupidity, I gave Raoul a push towards the exit and shouted, "Make a run for it!" For a moment, he seemed to be still in shock from the revelation of his beloved's shocking end, but he quickly recovered and took off at run.

As the crowd turned back towards me, I realized that I probably should have whispered that last line. I had not made any friends by taking the young Viscount's part.

"She's helping him! She's in on it!" said one of the dancers.

"Get her!!" The mob cried in unison. How do people do that? You can't get people to sing in unison even when holding music in large print while the conductor beats time on their skulls with a broomstick.

I turned and ran into the wings in the direction of my dressing room. I wasn't exactly sure what to do once I got there, but at least the door had a lock.

In retrospect, I probably should have run towards the exit.


	3. Through the Wrong Looking Glass

Luckily for me, my dressing room is the one closest to the stage. That's how status works in the opera; the more important you are, the smaller the distance between where you change and where you sing. This can prove tremendously convenient should you ever be chased through the wings by an angry mob- not that I would recommend trying it, mind you.

On the other end of the scale, Christine Daaé's dressing room is down a flight of rickety stairs, down an unused hallway, and in between two rooms that are used to store extra lumber. Guess who made that arrangement? Terribly convenient for Erik and terribly inconvenient for poor Christine and one more good reason for me to glad that I'm not her- besides her being dead and all. Still, I must admit that there's something deeply disappointing about being a soprano with a "golden, crystal throat" who never ever actually gets a chance to sing. That much I have always envied poor Christine.

I ran into my dressing room, slamming the door and locking myself inside. The mob was not far behind me. They pounded on the door and yelled, but I figured that they'd soon tire of it or they'd get distracted by something shiny. You'd be amazed at the way a mob never seems to accomplish much of anything in fiction, unless it involves torches and a monster. More often than not, they all mill around until they get bored and think of something better to do. I would simply wait them out and then walk out the front door, none the worse for wear. I decided to take a nice hot bath.

Half an hour later, the mob had disconcertingly failed to disperse and it finally occurred to me that I might be spending a very very long time in my dressing room and I hadn't thought to bring in anything to read. Or eat. In fact, things were not going at all the way I'd planned, but what could I do about it? Nothing. So I busied myself with my hair and toilette.

I changed into my street clothes and paused to admire myself in the floor to ceiling mirror that covers almost half an entire wall. It's a very large dressing room and a very large mirror. It always struck me as a little odd that the mirror had been built into the wall. I suppose that Garnier was simply being economical. Why bother with wall paper when someone's just going to hang a big mirror over it? The place was designed to be a dressing room unlike Christine's little nook, which was probably meant to be a closet or something.

I looked into the mirror, posing over my shoulder to straighten my bustle, but something wasn't quite right. I could still see my reflection, but I could also see something behind it. That seemed awfully strange.

Two-way mirrors only work properly when it's bright on the mirror side and dark on the glass side. The first thought that came to my mind was: since when is there a two-way mirror in _my_ dressing room? The next thought was: this had better not have been here before, or I will march down to the basement and kill Erik myself. Finally, it occurred to me that I might be able to go through my mirror and find the passage behind Christine's dressing room. Then I could pop back in through her dressing room and walk right out the front door according to plan, without anyone being the wiser.

I gave the mirror a gentle push- well, I didn't want to break a perfectly good mirror unless I had to. Nothing happened. I began patting it at random, without any luck. Then it occurred to me that the lever or latch was probably somewhere in the decorative gold frame around the edge of the mirror. I ran my fingers over a seemingly endless number of gilt rosebuds, until at last I felt a movement under my hand. With a sharp click, the mirror slid back and to the left, opening onto a brightly lit and freshly swept corridor. If it was any brighter or any cleaner, it would have sparkled. Actually, come to think of it, it did sparkle.

The light was coming from candelabras which had been mounted on the wall at close intervals. They appeared to be living human arms that had been painted gold, and when I say "living" I mean that they were all waving and swaying around at random. It was the first time that décor had ever made me feel seasick. I would have thought that it was impossibly for candles, no matter how many, to produce so much light. It was as if the sun was shining through the enclosed, interior corridor. There was no logic to it at all. Erik's magic was nothing but legerdemain, devices and tricks; this was the real thing.

The passage only ran in one direction, so I crouched down-the better to avoid being whacked in the head by an anthropomorphic lighting fixture- and began to follow the passage. After a minute or so of walking, the passage opened out onto a landing. To the right, a brightly lit staircase curved downwards. Erik might as well have put out signs that said "Phantom's Lair This Way." To the left, I could see a narrow hallway and a red light in the distance. Christine had mentioned seeing a red light when she was transported out of her dressing room, so it seemed like the best way to go.

The hallway looked very dark, so I decided to appropriate one of the candelabras from the wall. After a brief struggle, I was able to wrench one away from its holder. The holders only have one arm and I have two. Also, I bite. The other arms began to wave menacingly, as if they wanted to strike me. There was no going back for me now, the passage might as well have been sealed off.

The candles lit the hallway just enough that I could avoid walking into the walls, or tripping on debris that had been left by the workmen years ago when the Paris Opera was built. The red light was always ahead of me, but it didn't seem to be getting any closer. Although I didn't realize it at the time, the hallway was slightly curved and sloped downwards. I quickly lost my bearings and didn't realize that I had fallen into a trap until it was too late.

Erik had set up an ingenious system of mirrors, carefully angled to reflect the red light from the boiler rooms in the third basement. They were set low in the walls, and so cunningly arranged that unless you were looking directly at them, you'd never have realized that the light in the distance was really light being reflected in a small glass.

I found myself in the third basement, gazing into the boiler room where blackened demons feed coal into the fires day and night. The demons are really men, working in long shifts to power whatever it is that we need upstairs. Christine was always frightened by the boiler-men, but Christine is the sort of person who would be afraid of spoons if someone said spoons were evil.

I didn't dare go down into the boiler rooms for fear that the sparks would ignite my heavy skirts. The boilers belch sparks and soot constantly and the men who feed them are covered with a protective layer of dirt and ash. I could hear their grunts and yells as they worked in the light from the fires. I was just working up the courage to call out for assistance when a hand roughly seized me by the wrist and a voice hissed in my ear, "_What do you think you're doing down here?!_"


	4. A Shady Meeting

The hand pulled at my wrist, spinning me around so suddenly that I dropped my candelabra, which extinguished itself almost before it hit the stone floor with an embarrassingly loud crash. The red light from the boiler room was just bright enough to illuminate a pair of glaring eyes, staring down at me. If looks could kill, I'd have perished on the spot.

Erik's eyes burn with yellow fire from sockets that are sunken and hollow. It's as if someone had lit candle inside a skull, a skull that is bitter, angry and mostly insane.

These eyes didn't look anything like that, so it couldn't possibly have been Erik.

There are worse things than Erik in the opera basements, and wouldn't you know that I was staring right into the face of one of them. If Erik finds an unwary soul in his domain, he just kills them. If the Shade finds an unwary any place where unwary souls ought not to be, he drags them straight up to the manager's office and you don't hear the end of it for months. No, it hasn't ever happened to me, but you should hear what the Persian has to say about it.

"You have no business being down here!" The Shade repeated angrily, through gritted teeth. His grip tightened on my wrist

Having absolutely no idea what to do or say to get myself out of this situation, I did the only thing I could do. I started babbling incoherently and then burst into tears. I don't mean the kind of tears where one glistening tear rolls down a silent, pale cheek. I mean the kind of tears that start with getting red in the face and end with a bad case of the hiccups.

"Oh for crying out loud," said the Shade, releasing my wrist so that he could fumble around in his coats and capes for a handkerchief, "This isn't at all how things are supposed to work out." He thrust a crumpled square of linen at me.

"Thank you," I sniffled and began to gingerly dry my eyes. I wasn't entirely sure where the handkerchief had been after all.

"Come along," said the Shade reaching for my arm, "I'll take you back to your mirror and we'll pretend this never happened."

I stopped dead, "Wait, you know about my mirror? How do you know about the mirror? It hasn't always been like that, has it?"

"Well, Leroux never said that you don't have a two way mirror in your dressing room, did he?"

I was having the worst day.

The Shade started to leave, pulling me along after him. I dug in my heels, "No, I don't want to go back to my dressing room."

"Why not?"

"Because there's an angry mob waiting outside my door to kill me."

"Well, I can't say that I'm surprised about that," replied the Shade in a tone that I didn't much like.

I summoned up another sob- one that was good and loud.

"All right, all right, I give in. Where do you want to go?"

"I was thinking that I could sneak through Christine's mirror and then walk right out the front door."

"Fine." The Shade snapped, and taking me by the arm, he pulled me down a passage off to the right, one that I hadn't noticed there before. He moved at a brisk pace, forcing me to trot after him, holding my long skirts out the way with my free hand. On the whole, I think I'd have had a much better time if it had been Erik who found me.

After several minutes of jogging about in the near dark, we stopped in a small corridor. The Shade had a lantern, which cast just enough light for me to see our dim reflection in the mirrors which lined the corridor. There was only one problem; the mirrored panel that should have led into the dressing room was nowhere to be seen. There was nothing more than a tiny window, or maybe it was a vent, covered with an ornate iron grating and set into the wall. Erik's tricks were in place but the dressing room had vanished.

Even standing on tiptoe, the opening was just above my head. I resorted to bouncing up and down in order to peek through. Behind me the Shade was doubled over with amusement. If the sound hadn't been muffled by the scarf he'd wrapped around his face, the entire world would have heard it.

"Stop snickering and boost me up!" I hissed.

For once, the Shade complied without comment. He hoisted me up onto his shoulder and whispered back, "What do you see?"

For a moment, I was speechless. The imposter Christine Daaé was in the room, sitting on the stone floor and doing who knows how much damage to her dress. Behind her, a blonde ballet girl that I'd never seen before in my life was making idle chit chat about angels and music. For a moment, I thought it might be a dressing room after all, but I quickly realized that was not the case. "It's a chapel!" I squeaked "And it has a stained glass window!"

"A window?" blurted the Shade, with a sudden movement that sent me tumbling to the floor with a shriek. "That's an interior room. There can't be a window in there, not unless a quarter of the opera house has completely vanished."

"Well," I said, dusting off my skirts, "There's definitely a window and there was light coming through it. Christine's dressing room and a very large chunk of the opera house are no more!"

The Shade started to reply, but I shushed him, putting a finger to my lips. I could hear voices coming from the chapel.

"Do you hear something?" said the fake Christine "I think it was my angel of music!"

"I don't think this is a such a good idea, Christine. You're scaring me." said another voice, which I assume belonged to the blonde girl.

"Don't be stupid. I'm Christine, aren't I? The angel of music loves me and I'll love him back and it will be perfect!"

"I'm not sure that's how things work out in this place. That didn't sound like a romantic angel of music to me and in the book, Erik is really evil."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," snapped the Christine girl, "If you don't like it, I can get someone else to be Meg. The phantom is mine, and I can do as I like!"

I could have sworn that I heard the sound a slap, followed by a squeal.

"There is no way that we're going in there, not even if a door and a welcome mat turn up within the next two seconds," whispered the Shade, with what I took to be a pained expression, judging by the little I could see of his face.

"So where do we go? We can't go back to my dressing room and I refuse to be dragged into the managers' office." I insisted.

"Then we have only one choice. We must exit through the inexplicably conveniently located--"

"You don't mean…" I gasped.

"Yes, I do. We're going down to the inexplicably conveniently located entrance to the phantom's lair."


	5. Plot Pointing the Way

By the end of _The Phantom of the Opera_, you could swear that Erik might as well be having a house party because there are so many random people popping up in his lair. Most notably, the Comte de Chagny turns up just long enough to be murdered without actually having any bearing at all on the main plot. His own brother, Raoul, doesn't even seem to notice that he's dead.

Well, if random secondary characters are going to go waltzing into Erik's lair to get themselves killed and remind us once again that Erik is not a very nice individual, they need a convenient way in. Hence we have the inexplicably conveniently located entrance to Erik's lair. There's even a little plaque on the door that says "Lair of Elusive Psychopath- Down the Stairs and to the Left." This entrance can also be used a convenient exit, should you happen to have been kidnapped and released by Erik and you decide that you'd rather not meet with any of your friends and acquaintances as you stagger back home in the morning.

None of this is any secret from anyone in our book. If anyone wants to visit Erik, he's easy enough to find, but no one with any brains at all would ever go looking for him. Erik is the sort of person who tortures a person to death and then congratulates himself on what a great joke it was. The hilarity never ends chez Erik. I'm sure the long winter evenings five stories underground in the damp simply fly by with all the amusingly anguished screams of horror and such.

We emerged onto the landing, the same place where I had chosen to go towards the red light, rather than down the stone stairs towards the lair. The corridor I had taken was gone entirely. "This doesn't make any sense," I said and then stopped myself, "Or maybe it does. This might be important." Something had to happened, a corridor full of flailing candelabra is not the sort of thing a person can overlook.

"We should really keep moving," said the Shade, "If things are this unstable, how can be sure that Erik's lair will even be there?"

The only options were retracing our steps or going down into the bowels of the opera house, where Erik was most certainly waiting.

"I wonder… if we went back down the way we came, would we end up back at my dressing room?" I said.

"Do you really want to try it?" asked the Shade. I think he raised an eyebrow at me. He was so wrapped up in scarves and cloaks that it was hard to tell.

I looked back where the two strange girls were probably busy hair and calling each other names in the chapel. "No, I really don't." But even as I said the words, I had doubts. It seemed to me that there were some clues in all of this, but I couldn't quite put any of the pieces together.

The Shade started walking, and I followed behind him, past the landing and down the stairs, which were wide, well-lit and built on a gently curved spiral. Every twenty steps or so, there was a small landing. It seemed to go on forever, and I was losing all sense of direction. Were we two floors underground, or three, or five, or even more? Nothing looked like Christine's description at all until I made out a white shape in the distance.

There was César, the missing white horse that we had used in Le Prophète last season. I hate that opera. It is five acts long, and there's a ballet on roller-skates that goes on forever and then in the end everybody dies. It's the kind of opera I'd pay not to have to see. Besides, here I am the most famous soprano in Paris and I have to play some stupid peasant girl named Berthe, while the contralto has the major lead and gets all the accolades, stupid Meyerbeer. Did I mention that Meyerbeer was the music director of the Paris Opera? That goes a long way towards explaining why we'd been performing nothing but overblown, overdramatic Meyerbeer extravaganzas for the last several seasons, intermixed with the occasional soppy Gounod tearjerker. Where was I?

Other than the part where everything was very brightly lit and about three times the size it ought to be, things were beginning to make a little more sense. César was standing in front of a large stone archway. Off to one side, I could see the small well, where Eric had revived Christine. I had my doubts about whether Erik would have been able to carry Christine quite this far on his own, but I was grateful for a landmark that I could actually recognize.

I pet César's nose while the Shade took a look around. Leave it Erik to steal the very sweetest and prettiest horse in the entire stable. God forbid he could take the chestnut gelding who tried to kick the leading baritone in the head during act IV.

A moment later, the Shade was back. "Just through the archway, there are three different corridors branching off in different directions. I don't remember anything like this being here before. I have no idea which one to take."

"Oh, we should just take the brightly lit one." I said, still busy with César, who was snuffling my cheek.

"That thought did cross my mind. Unfortunately, all three corridors have exactly the same lighting scheme. They're slightly less bright than here, but still a lot brighter than you'd expect about three stories underground.", the Shade replied.

"Oh is that how far we are?" César is the sweetest horse in the whole world.

"Actually, I'm just guessing based on… you're not listening at all are you. You're busy playing kissy face with the horsey." The Shade looked irritable, or would have if I could have seen more of him.

I gave the Shade my best icy look. "I'll have you know that the 'horsey' is a prize-winning thoroughbred who probably knows his way around here far better than we do."

César nodded.

"What in the world…" I trailed off as I staggered several paces backward.

The Shade hovered over my shoulder, enjoying the moment, "César can you show us the way to Erik's lair?" another nod, "Well that's all settled, then." The Shade spoke directly into my ear, "Get up on the horse and let's get going."

"I'd really rather walk." I hissed back.

The Shade hissed back, "Ten seconds ago, you were practically in love with the damn horse. Now come on, before the magic horse gets offended."

I have nothing against riding. I enjoy riding. I'd just rather not ride down a whole lot of stairs sidesaddle while wearing a bustle. The Shade boosted me into the saddle, and I proceeded to hold on for dear life as César led us deeper into the opera basements and closer to Erik.

_ Author's note: Le Prophète had its premiere in 1849. It is five acts long, with an extended "ice skating" ballet sequence that was performed on roller skates. At the end of the opera, everybody dies._


	6. A Soggy Situation

After what seemed like a short eternity, we reached a small pier with a small boat conveniently waiting. I slid off César's back, careful of my aching posterior. Whoever invented the sidesaddle should be hunted down and shot… along with the person who came up with the bustle.

Past the pier, I could see the lake and Erik's house on the other side. There was another little pier by the house with a lantern to help guide the way across the lake. The water was pitch black and disturbingly still. Up until this point, I hadn't really thought about what an unbelievably bad idea it had been to come here. All the same, I could see the Inexplicably Convenient Entrance to Erik's Lair right next to his house. I hadn't actually seen it before, but it wasn't at all hard to recognize. There couldn't be that many doors to the outside down here and also, there was a sign on it that read "Inexplicably Convenient entrance to/exit from Erik's Lair."

"What happens now?" asked the Shade.

"Well," I replied, "The last we heard from Erik, he was building models. So, if we're really lucky, he's passed out from sniffing the glue and has no idea about anything that's been going on recently."

"How likely do you think that is?"

"Not very," I replied sadly. "Pretty much, we're about to paddle right into the lair of a lunatic master of all kinds of super-genius booby traps who happens to be especially ticked off right about now and we can't turn back because César just ditched us. I guess we'd better get into the boat and get this over with."

"You first."

I hitched up my skirts and climbed into the front of the boat. The Shade got into the back and started rowing.

The lake is a lot larger than it looks. We were only a quarter of the way across when the singing began.

Erik's voice was everywhere. He was singing the music of Lazarus, which he promises to play for Christine at her father's grave or would have promised if she wasn't dead and all. I think the composer is Schubert. It was vitally important to concentrate on stupid trivia rather than giving in to the hypnotic sound of Erik's preternaturally beautiful tenor voice.

"Look around for a reed." I hissed at the Shade.

"A what?" the Shade hissed back. He was still rowing, but distractedly. We were approaching the center of the lake.

"The Persian has this big long speech about how Erik likes to skulk around underwater using a reed to breathe and sing and otherwise annoy people. That has to be what he's up to now, so if we know where the reed is, then we know where Erik is and whether or not we're safe for the time being."

"You mean like the one over there, right under the lantern on the pier?" asked the Shade, forgetting to row. We drifted into the center of the lake.

I strained for a better look, "Yes, that's exactly the sort of thing, but why would Erik hide right in the one spot where it would be easy to see-----"

And with a great splash, the boat tipped over completely, dumping us into Erik's lake. Erik had been right beside us the entire time.

I sank like a stone, thanks to my petticoats which soaked up enough water to fill a bathtub. Although the thought of traipsing about in sopping wet underwear didn't appeal to me, it was better than drowning. I struggled with the buttons on the front of my dress and thanked heaven that I had put on something that I could remove without assistance.

My gold silk Maison Worth dress floated down to the bottom of the lake, along with my bustle crinoline and the majority of my underthings. Just before I hit the bottom, a shadowed figure appeared in the black water and brandished a knife. I wasn't sure if it was planning to cut my corset laces or slit my throat and I didn't want to find out. I punched it in the face and started swimming for the surface. Yes, they do have water in Spain and I know how to swim in it.

I gasped for air and treaded water as I struggled with the clasps to my stays and at last managed to wriggle free of them. Although I could swim in a corset, it was not comfortable or easy and I'd be a sitting duck if Erik decided to try anything.

I swam towards the dock by Erik's house. I wasn't sure what had become of Erik and the Shade. Maybe they were underwater, killing one another. I decided that if that's what they wanted to do, there wasn't much that I could do to stop them, so it was useless to worry about the matter.

I reached the little dock and hoisted myself out of the water. Then I made a point of getting out of arm's range of the lake. I'm not stupid and I don't trust Erik one little bit. Just because he hadn't drowned me yet didn't mean that he wouldn't try it given half a chance.

A moment later, the Shade emerged from the water. He was sopping wet, which was not a pretty sight, let me tell you. His wool scarves had started stinking like anything. Wool is like that when it gets wet. He had lost his hat, but had his head wrapped in so many other layers that it hardly made a difference. Erik was nowhere to be seen. I looked for ripples in the water, or bubbles, but there was nothing. The surface was once again as still as glass.

Nonetheless, Erik was out there somewhere. I heard the sound of muffled laughter coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"I can't believe you decked him underwater. It was priceless." The voice, Erik's voice, said evenly, as if it was right next to my ear. With that, the water rippled and bubbled as the Shade's hat floated to the surface.


	7. A Ring and a Promise

"Well, how was I supposed to know who it was?" I sulked. One man in dark clothes with his face mostly covered is pretty much like another man in dark clothes with his face covered up.

"I'm the one with a nose", the Shade snapped back.

"Oh great, pick on the birth defect. Thanks a lot." Erik sneered.

The Shade glared at the water. I had no doubt that wherever he was, Erik was glaring back. I busied myself by trying and failing to wring out my petticoat. When I looked down at the puddle of water that was forming around my feet, I noticed that my sopping camisole was almost completely transparent and was silently grateful that neither Erik nor the Shade cared enough to notice. I wrapped my arms around my chest and shivered. "Erik, where are you?" I asked.

"That's for me to know and you're really better off if you don't find out." Erik's voice replied. "I wouldn't get too close to the inexplicably convenient entrance to my home, if I were you. I'm afraid that the siren might catch you, if you do."

I looked towards the exit, but there was no sign of Erik. All the same, I didn't doubt that he was as good as his word. His Punjab lasso had a long reach. I thought about putting my hand at the level of my eyes, but I didn't think it would do much good. I wrapped my arms around myself more tightly, more cold than afraid.

Erik went on, "You've rather come down in the world, Carlotta. Look at the company you're keeping. Not much of a gentleman at all, is he? Why don't you come inside my parlor and we'll have a nice little chat."

The Shade stripped off one of his coats and dropped it onto my shoulders. It was heavy, wet and nasty but I was grateful for it all the same. "Don't even think about going in there." He whispered.

"Firstly," I said, "Erik can probably hear every word we say, no matter how quiet we are. Secondly, he's not going to let us leave unless we do exactly what he wants."

"Clever girl," the voice agreed.

The Shade walked to the edge of the lake and looked down at his hat, floating in the water. For a moment, he hesitated, then with a quick motion he bent down and snatched his hat out of the water. Slowly and deliberately, the Shade put the hat back on his head and adjusted his scarves. "Very well," he said.

That was good enough for me, I began squelching my way towards the entrance to Erik's lair, which actually did look like a house. In fact, it could be anybody's house. There are hundreds of houses all over Paris that look almost exactly like it, except for the part where it's a house that is right next to a lake and five stories underground. However, from the inside, Erik's house is disappointingly normal and boring, even down to the hideous upholstery with those big pinkish roses on it. Ick.

Off to the left, the door to Christine's bedroom was left open and I couldn't resist peeking inside. It was also about as normal and plain as it gets. It goes to reason, after all. If Erik had built some sort of fantasy bordello, Christine would probably drop dead on the spot from an excess of outraged modesty. The bed was clearly built for one and covered with a patchwork quilt, of all things. It doesn't get more unthreatening than that. Christine was actually put off by how normal and ordinary the lair had seemed to her. I found it somewhat reassuring. Granted, only a complete psycho would build a cheap little house underground, but it was still better than finding some kind of demented altar to Christine or a fairy tale palace or something. Erik's house was a place where someone could actually manage to live with a minimum of fuss- outside of whatever trap doors and torture chambers were lurking about. I made a point of watching my step.

Erik was waiting for us in the parlor, fingering his Punjab lasso. He was tall, thin and dressed in an impeccably tailored set of evening clothes. A black silk mask covered his entire face, save for his yellowed and bloodshot eyes. I noticed that Erik's clothing was bone dry. That's not an unusual magician's trick, but it was impressive. Although I couldn't see Erik's expression behind the mask, I could only assume it was one that I wouldn't like at all. His jaundiced eyes smoldered.

"I'm sure you already know, that no one who comes here can be allowed to live." Erik said ominously. Come to think of it, is there any other way to say those words?

"Well then, you could have killed us both twenty minutes and had done with it." The Shade replied in a tone I could only describe as acid. For whatever the reason, the Shade and Erik hated one another on sight- although it was nothing too shocking given that Erik hates everybody and the Shade had been none too social up to this point.

Erik sneered back, "It isn't as if we need you around. Do you ever make an appearance in the Leroux book at all?"

"Irregardless," I interrupted the scintillating repartee, "You must want something from us or we wouldn't still be walking around."

"I want you to find out who murdered Christine Daaé. Once you have the answer to the mystery, you can leave the rest to me. I'll just be down here making an extra wing for my lair out of little wooden sticks and yarn because apparently, I'm able to do that."

I had no idea that anyone could do that, but then again, I never learned how to crochet.

"I would think," I ventured, "That you'd be in a better position than we are to find the culprit what with all your ninja trap-doors and torture chambers and stuff."

"Oh yes," Erik casually added, "About the torture chamber- it seems to have buggered off. Anyway, it's not in my living room anymore and I don't recall moving the blasted thing, so you might want to watch your step, just in case it pops up someplace unexpected."

How careless do you have to be to lose an entire torture chamber? And wouldn't people notice a thing like that lying around?

"Frankly," said Erik, "Everything is going topsy-turvy in this place, so I'd rather stay down here… and I can't find the corridor right now. Never mind though, if you don't come through with the name of the killer, I will figure out a way to go up there and I will kill you both in some nasty, lingering way that I haven't come up with yet, but I guarantee that you won't like it one bit and you will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you."

"We'd be doing all that the Phantom asked of us a lot sooner if the Phantom would learn to speak in normal sentences," said the Shade. I began to wonder which masked madman was the more dangerous, Erik or the Shade?

"We'll get right on it, Erik. We just have to slip out the inexplicably conveniently located entrance to your lair in order to avoid this angry mob that's after us."

The Shade smirked, "Actually, they're only after you."

I tried to think of a witty comeback, but nothing came to mind. Oh well, some comments don't deserve a response. "I'll promise whatever you want me to. Just let us go." I said.

Erik slid a ring off his little finger and held it out, "Take this and wear it as a token of your promise. When you've found the murderer, come back and return it to me. As long as you have the ring, you'll be safe from me."

"You mean the both of us, right?" I said, reaching out for the ring.

Erik drew back his hand a little and was silent. I couldn't read the expression in his glowing yellow eyes. After a long moment, he placed the ring into my hand, "Both of you, but only as long as you have the ring. If you lose it, woe to you both. Now go!"


	8. Diverse Flights

I didn't wait for Erik to change his mind. As soon as I had his ring in my grasp, I jumped up and ran for the Inexplicably Conveniently Located Entrance to Erik's Lair. The Shade was right on my heels. "Thanks for that", he said as we emerged into the sunlight.

"I never would have made it that far without your help," I said, "And I'm sorry for getting you into this much trouble. Erik's promises always come with some sort of a catch. I don't think either of us is safe in the opera house anymore."

"Then I suggest that we put as much distance between ourselves and the opera house as possible. Even if Erik comes after us, he won't have the advantage of his trap doors and mirrors."

"I want to find Raoul. He's the hero of the book, so he'd be the most likely to have some kind of ingenious plan to fix this mess."

"Then we head for the De Chagny estate. If Raoul has any sense at all, that's where we'll find him. There have to be some horses or a carriage around here somewhere." The Shade glanced toward the opera house stables, "We'll find something in the city."

As we turned to leave, a voice behind us cried, "No! Wait!" A tiny little woman, all in faded black was gesturing wildly at us. She held a cane in one hand and a black-haired ballet rat in the other. It was Madame Giry with her daughter Meg.

"Please," said Madame Giry as she approached us, "You must take Meg with you. She isn't safe at the opera anymore. I'm afraid that whoever killed Christine will go after her next!" She was absolutely terrified.

"Madame Giry, where were you when we found Christine's body?" I took hold of her trembling hands to steady her.

"If you promise to take Meg with you to the De Chagny estate, then I'll tell you everything I know!"

The Shade looked at me and I felt for Erik's ring on my finger. I wasn't going to be comfortable until I had that thing on a chain. I nodded and the Shade answered for us both, "We promise to take care of Meg, now tell us what you saw."

Madame Giry began her story, "I was standing outside the ballet room, watching Meg practice with the other dancers when a note fluttered down from the rafters. I've never run into Erik outside of his box, you understand. When he wants to communicate with me, he leaves the note on the little ledge. I have the note here." Madame Giry reached into her pocket and produced the document.

The note was written on heavy white paper with a black border. It was sealed with a huge, red, wax skull that must have used up at least half a candle and would have taken a good ten minutes to harden after it was poured. Someone had spent a lot of time on this note. It was addressed to Madame Giry in distinctive black calligraphy that didn't look at all like Erik's childish scrawl. Penmanship had never been one of Erik's interests. I opened the note and read, "My dear Madame Giry, Please attend to my box immediately. Signed, O. G."

"I was surprised, but naturally I did as the phantom asked. I went directly to the box to see what needed my attention, only when I tried the key it wouldn't work." Madame Giry produced the key.

The Shade took the key and held it up to examine it, "This can't be the key to box five. I don't think it matches any of the locks in the opera house. It's much too old."

"Please, keep it. It's of no use to me." The Shade slipped the key into a pocket somewhere deep within his many garments as Madame Giry continued, "While I was struggling with the door to the box, I heard the backdrop fall and saw the commotion on stage. I was worried about Meg, so I ran back to the ballet room." She looked over to Meg.

Meg continued the story, "We heard the backdrop fall and we all ran out to look, but as I was about to follow the others, I saw the other Madame Giry and a lot of dancers that I didn't know. There were at least six or seven of them. I got scared, so I stayed in the ballet room to hide. No one knew that I was there, and while I was waiting, I heard whispering outside the door. I think they were talking about angels. It sounded like 'The angels will be pleased' but I couldn't who said it, or if it was a man or a woman."

Madame Giry continued the story, "There's a passage that connects the corridor behind the boxes to the area backstage. It's there to make it easier for the box-keepers to move around the building. I slipped in behind the crowd and I saw something. There was someone in dark clothing lurking around in the shadows. It must have seen me, because it slipped away very quickly, before I could see who it was. That was just before you all found the body. I assumed that I had seen the killer, so I rushed to the ballet room to get Meg out of there. We've been hiding in the stable ever since."

"I wonder if it was Erik that you saw? Did you see glowing yellow eyes?" I asked.

"No," Madame Giry replied, "It was all dark, like a shadow."

"Erik calls himself the Angel of Music. He could have had something to do with the whispering." The Shade pointed out.

"But," I said, "Killing Christine would hardly have pleased him. Besides, Erik had to have been down below in his lair long enough to hear that our voices were filtering down to him. I don't think he'd have bothered making up an alibi, because it's never troubled him in the past. He likes being blamed when things go wrong, whether he had a hand in it or not."

"Speaking of Erik, the longer we wait here, the more likely he is to come skulking back around with his Punjab lasso. I don't think we should rely too heavily on his promises."

Madame Giry turned to leave, "I'm not going with you. The least Christine Daaé deserves is a proper funeral. It will be at Perros cemetery at eleven tomorrow morning. I hope you'll come."

"It's the least we can do for a principal character." I told her.

As Madame Giry hobbled back towards the opera house, the three of us started to walk towards the Rue Scribe. Without warning, there was a clap of thunder that shook the ground. The Shade grabbed me with one arm and Meg with the other, and pulled us out of the way of falling plaster and tiles. A soldier ran towards us from the direction of the noise. "What do you think you're doing out here? It's not safe for civilizations out here. Go inside at once!"

"What in the hell is going on?" I yelled back.

"Are you daft woman? It's 1870! We're in the midst of the Franco-Prussian War and Paris is under siege!"

"That's impossible. The war was over in 1871, three years before the Palais Garnier was completed. There is no way that it can be 1870 when our entire plot takes place during an opera season that couldn't possibly have happened before 1875! If the opera house is complete then there can't be any war going on, just take a look."

I pointed back at the opera house only to find that it wasn't the opera house. That is to say, it was an opera house but not the Palais Garnier. I started to read the name on the building when another mortar shell whizzed by and struck the name on the new building's façade. The four of us scrambled back, cowering under one of the shop fronts. I could make out the word, "opera" but the rest was gone.

"It's as if the only thing that matters to the author is that there's an opera house and it's 1870. There's no connection at all with anything in the outside world." I wondered.

"Siege or no, we have to find a way out of the city. We're not safe inside the opera house and we're not safe outside either. I'll have to risk going into the opera stables to find us some horses." The Shade replied.

"Actually," said a voice behind us, "I think I have a better plan!"

"Raoul! Thank god!" I cried and flung my arms around our hero. "Did you bring your fine horses?"

"I've brought something even better. Come quickly and I'll explain on the way."

Raoul led us through an alleyway that I hadn't even noticed before and we emerged into a large open square with an adjacent street that was both wide and empty. The siege must have driven everyone away. There was a winged machine parked in the middle of the square. There were clear block letters across the side which spelled out: Roule's Ingenious Plane.

"Roule?" I asked, "But I thought your name was Raoul."

"Apparently, it's actually Roule. I was as surprised as you." Roule climbed onto the wing of the plane and tossed down a pair of leather jackets and three sets of goggles. "Here, put these on. Flying can get a little nippy."

I wriggled out of the Shade's damp coat and put on the jacket. Meg put on the other jacket. The Shade was already wrapped in so many layers that he couldn't have fit into a jacket, even if he had wanted to.

"You two hop into the front," said Roule, "And I'll take Meg in the back seat with me. It will be a bit of a squeeze, but I think we can make it. I was actually only expecting to rescue one person, so it's a lucky thing that I brought the larger plane."

I followed Roule onto the wing and looked it over. It didn't look especially comfortable or particularly safe. Also, I noticed a slight problem. "Umm, Roule? There's a snake on this plane."

"Oh that's just my pet snake, Fopsy. She won't bother you at all."

I was prepared to strenuously object to the snake, but I could hear explosions going off all over the city and given the choice between being blown up, murdered by Erik or putting up with a pet snake, well, I could live with the snake.


	9. Minus a Major Character

On the whole, flying is not all that unpleasant, even if you aren't very fond of heights. Taking off, on the other hand, is a white knuckle experience when you're in a rickety little plane in the midst of a city that is apt to have an explosion every ten minutes or so. Much against my inclination, I found myself shrinking back against the Shade at which point I realized that there was a human body buried somewhere under all those layers of clothing. Up until that point, I had thought of him as an animate pile of clothing with a bad attitude. That there was actually a living and breathing man under there was not something that I'd considered, nor was it something that I wanted to consider.

"Once we're in the air, it will be fine. You'll be fine," the Shade said right into my ear. I noticed that in addition to a chest, he also possessed a nose somewhere under all those scarves because I could feel it brush my cheek through his scarf- which, by the way, had left off stinking and settled into smelling a little funny. I also decided that I would rather spend the rest of the trip barfing over the side of the plane rather than holding onto a man that I hardly even knew like there was no tomorrow. I put as much distance between us as possible- about an inch and a half but it was better than nothing- and looked back at Roule.

"It's exhilarating isn't it?" Yelled Roule. Crushed behind him, Meg had her eyes tight shut and had turned an interesting shade of green. I couldn't blame her. My stomach was feeling exhilarated to the point of jumping into my mouth and scattering its contents all over anyone unlucky enough to be below us.

"It's quite something," I said. I wasn't exactly lying, I just left out the part where it was something I hoped not to do very often. "When did you start flying planes, Roule?"

"Funny you should ask. I don't really know the answer. I feel like I've always been flying, but I can't actually remember much about it before today. After you helped me escape from the opera house, I took my carriage and rode hell for leather back to the estate. Then it occurred to me that something was wrong. The woman I loved more than my own life had been murdered, and I had gone running off with my tail between my legs while you were left at the mercy of the mob for helping me. It wasn't right. I decided I had to get back the opera house as quickly as possible and that's when I realized that I happened to have this ingenious plane."

"I'm sorry about Christine, Roule. I wish there was something I could do."

"What was that?"

I repeated myself a little louder.

"Would it kill you to sit still and be quiet?" The Shade asked.

"Yes, it would." I replied tartly before I proceeded to tell Roule the story of our recent adventures. The Shade contributed a running commentary of annoyed grunts and irritated sighs. There is only one sensible course of action when a man is going out his way to annoy you completely: ignore him completely. I was ignoring the Shade like nobody's business.

When I finished my story, I settled in to enjoy the rest of the flight, if that was actually possible. The work looks very small and moves very fast when you're in the sky. I had never flown before, what with the airplane not having yet been invented when _The Phantom of the Opera_ takes place and my fear was balanced by a considerable amount of fascination. Had the circumstances been more pleasant, I might have had a wonderful time.

We made a smooth landing in a large field on the De Chagny property. Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny and La Sorelli came out to meet us. La Sorelli and I have always been fairly good friends. She welcomed me with an embrace and promised to do everything in her power to find me something warm to eat and something decent to wear. I shuddered to think what I must look like after everything we'd been through. Meg was in worse shape than I was. She could barely stand up after everything she'd been through. She was only a child, after all. Between them, Phillipe and Roule managed to lift her out of the plane. While they busied themselves with Meg, I asked the Shade to help me collect Fopsy the snake. She had been sitting unobtrusively on my feet through most of the journey and once I managed to convince myself that I was in no danger of being bitten or eaten, I didn't mind having a snake on the plane all that much. Now that we were out of danger, everyone was realizing the gravity of our situation and we all wanted to be alone with our own thoughts.

The housekeeper showed me to one of the guest bedrooms and I indulged myself in a long, hot bath while I mulled over the events of the day. Someone had written a note to Madame Giry to get her out of the way. Meg Giry had heard someone talking about an "angel" shortly before Christine was killed. That had to mean Erik, or could they have meant Christine? It would have been easy enough to mix up the syntax so that Christine was Erik's angel of music. Had Christine been murdered by someone who wanted to get to Erik for some reason? The imposter Christine had claimed to love Erik when she was talking to her cohort in the chapel. Did that mean that Erik was in danger? That was hard to fathom. I reassured myself that Erik's ring was still on my finger. I was prepared to blame the imposter Christine for the murder, but she couldn't have done it because she was standing on the opposite side of the stage and in plain view of everyone. There was also the shadowy figure Madame Giry had seen to consider. If it wasn't Erik, then who was it and what were they doing backstage?

The Shade had the note and the key tucked away in his pockets. I didn't think there were very many answers in the note, but the key held some promise. It had to unlock something somewhere. It might lead us to a clearer answer.

La Sorelli had brought her maid along with her, who had promised to have a dress ready for me by the morning. Unfortunately, La Sorelli was a good four inches shorter than I am, so none of her dresses would fit me. Her maid was going to alter one of the dresses that had belonged to Roule and Phillipe's mother. For the time being, the housekeeper had found some of Roule's old clothes, which were small enough to fit me. I wasn't thrilled to be running around in pants, but it was better than running around in my underthings. I coiled my hair into a knot at the back of my head and went down to dinner.

The Shade had decided to eat in his room. I suppose it would have been tricky for him to eat while keeping his face covered with a scarf. I wasn't exactly sure why he was so determined to be buried under so much clothing. It wasn't as if he had anything to hide, was it?

Roule picked at his food. I think Christine's death had finally sunk in. Phillipe was too busy watching Roule to take very much interest in his food. Meg and La Sorelli are ballerinas and they don't eat at all, regardless of the circumstances. I nibbled on some prawns and wished that dinner would end. Perhaps the Shade had the right idea. This was anything but a comfortable meal.

After dinner, the Shade joined us in the parlor for coffee- not that he drank any.

"I think it would be best if you all remained here with us," Phillipe said, taking charge of the situation. "You're beyond Erik's reach and safe from the fighting in the city."

"I'm going back. I have to know what happened to Christine," Roule insisted. "I can fly in on my own. It doesn't matter what happens to me now that she's gone."

"I'm going to Christine's funeral at Perros Cemetery." I informed the others, "I think she deserves that much. I'm not sure where to go from there. I think the answer must be connected to Madame Giry's key."

"If you're going to Perros, then so am I." The Shade produced the key from one of his pockets. He'd exchanged his damp garments for some things from Phillipe's closet. He would have been entirely presentable if he hadn't been wearing an overcoat, scarf and hat indoors.

"I'll fly you both there in my plane. I can bring you both back here after the funeral before I return to the opera house."

I fingered Erik's ring. I'd begged a chain from one of the maids and the ring was now safely hanging around my neck. As if on cue, the butler entered with a letter on a tray which he offered to me. I recognized the black-bordered paper and the ostentatious red skull seal almost immediately. My name was written in red ink.

"Don't open it!" La Sorelli cried nervously.

"It's only a letter," I reassured her, "Even Erik can't do much damage with a stupid letter."

As I broke the seal, the others gathered around to look. In the same red ink Erik had written:

_My dear diva,_

_I hope that you have not forgotten your promise, lest I should forget mine. This is my novel, and there is nowhere I cannot reach you. Return to the opera house, or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur- most likely involving a lot of dynamite._

_Yours,_

_OG_

"What will you do?" La Sorelli asked nervously.

I folded the note and handed it to the Shade for safekeeping. "I will get a good night's sleep and tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock, I will attend Christine's funeral at Perros."

"What about Erik?" Phillipe asked.

I looked around the room at the worried faces before announcing firmly, "Erik can wait."


	10. Requiem for an Ingenue

La Sorelli had been more than true to her word. She must have had her poor maid up all night altering one of the late Comtesse de Chagny's black velvet dresses into something that would fit me and wouldn't look too out of date. No detail of my toilette was neglected. It felt good to be properly dressed and coifed again. I looked into the mirror and was satisfied with my appearance. I sent La Sorelli's maid off to bed and let one of the upstairs maids assist me with the final touches to my ensemble. I bent the rules of etiquette in order to have breakfast in my room before making my grand entrance… in Roule's old clothes from last night. Black velvet is not at all suitable for flying. I'd have to change after we arrived at Perros.

Roule looked like he had spent a rough night. His eyes were both hollow from a lack of sleep and puffy from crying. What I could see of the Shade, namely a pair of eyes, looked much the same as ever. As I entered the room, the pair of them stopped talking and looked directly at me in a way that made it more than obvious that they'd been talking about me. I knew exactly what was coming.

"We've been discussing things," said Roule, "And we both think that you should stay here."

"I appreciate your opinions." I said sweetly.

"And you're going to ignore them." The Shade filled in without missing a beat.

"Precisely. I couldn't have put it better myself. Shouldn't we get going? We don't want to be late for the funeral."

"Carlotta," said the Shade, "You do realize that this is serious? A major character has already been murdered. It isn't safe to play this game."

I'd been thinking about that as I drifted off to sleep the night before. I'd expected us all to be reduced to floating text when the gala was wrecked, but that hadn't happened. We were all still here, well most of us were, and if we were all still here, then maybe we were supposed to see the adventure through to the end. However, I had no intention of explaining all that when the men were playing save-the-little-woman-from-her-female-foolishness.

"It isn't safe, period. Erik has made that more than clear. I'm going to Perros with or without the two of you and after that I'll go back to the opera house to report to Erik. It's the best I can manage."

Roule gave a defeated shrug and headed towards the airfield. I couldn't read the Shade at all. He just stood there for a minute without doing anything at all until I passed by and then I could have sworn I saw his eyes crinkle up a little bit, as if he had actually smiled. Men are strange beasts. The upstairs maid followed us with a large box containing my new dress and all its accoutrements.

The flight went by much more quickly this time. Roule owned more than one ingenious plane. He had a whole ingenious fleet of them, so it seemed. This time we each had the luxury of our own seat, which meant that I could keep the dress with me. It was bulky and inconvenient, but preferable to attending a funeral in pants.

We landed in a field within sight of the church at Perros Cemetery shortly after ten thirty. Madame Giry was already there and waved to us as we approached. A few minor characters had already begun to arrive. I recognized a nameless conductor, several members of the chorus, a couple of orchestra players and two ballet rats. I can't say that I was surprised not to see any of the new ballet girls or Christines or whoever they were, but it was telling that they couldn't be bothered to turn up. Madame Giry showed me into one of the alcoves and assisted me with my dress. I let her know that Meg was safe and doing well. I decided not to mention the note from Erik, which would have only upset her. Hopefully, Madame Giry would be able to join her daughter after the service was over.

Christine Daaé looked just as lovely in death as she had in life. She had been dressed in a delicate white gown, edged with lace and her golden hair was lay loose over her shoulders. Someone had thought to place a small nosegay of white roses in her hands and little white flowers had been scattered over her hair, almost like a halo or a crown. She had been an angel and in comparison, I felt like a carrion crow with my dark hair and black dress.

Roule was bent over Christine's body like he was Prince Charming about to kiss Sleeping Beauty back into life; only Christine wasn't going to wake up. His shoulders heaved with silent sobs. The church was beginning to fill with people. I waited a few minutes to let Roule say his goodbyes before I laid my hand on his shoulder and gently helped him to a seat in the front. Anyone who has read our book knows that Christine and I were not officially on good terms, and I had planned to sit unobtrusively in the back but Roule gripped my hand so tightly that I couldn't slip away. I sat down beside him and did my best to be some sort of comfort. I didn't know where the Shade had got to, and it didn't seem polite to look around for him.

Mamma Valérius was one of the last to arrive. She leaned heavily on Madame Giry who escorted her to the other front pew, just opposite to us. Before seating herself, she approached Roule and put her hands on either side of his face. "She always loved you and no one but you." Mamma Valérius told Roule, who nodded silently. The she turned to me, clearly wondering why I was here at all, much less in such a prominent place.

At a loss to explain anything, I murmured, "I am so very sorry for your loss. Christine was the real angel of music."

Mamma Valérius allowed me a curt nod, but I couldn't help noticing her eyes flicker towards Roule's grip on my hand. There was nothing more for me to say, so I said nothing.

The opera house managers were the very last to arrive, looking rather sheepish and not a little confused. They joined Mamma Valérius in her pew. Madame Giry seated herself beside Roule. We all waited in silence until at last Madame Giry looked at me and said, "Isn't there supposed to be music?"

I looked to the alcove near the altar, which was clearly meant for the choir but it was empty. We had a church full of singers and musicians but not a note was played. I gave Roule's hand a squeeze and then laid it down gently. The music had been laid out in the alcove; it was just that no one was there to sing it. I picked up the sheets, took a deep breath and began to sing. I was accompanied by the ghostly echo of a violin. Was it the ghost of dead Daddy Daaé welcoming his daughter into heaven, or was it Erik?

Surprisingly, the funeral went off without an incident of any kind. I didn't see the Shade again until Madame Giry and I were escorting Roule out of the church. He appeared out of breath and his scarves were in some disarray. "I've figured out the mystery of the key," he said, "It will unlock Daddy Daaé's tomb."

Funny, I wouldn't have though that Daddy Daaé could have afforded a tomb.


	11. Key to a Skeleton

It must have been past noon already, but the morning fog was still hanging over the churchyard. It was quite a bit larger than I would have imagined. We wandered past monuments and statues that would have made any aristocrat proud to be deceased. Marble angels gazed down on us. Marble urns spilled endless marble willow branches. A hundred marble mourners wept silent marble tears in the mist. In short, it was both beautiful and ridiculous.

The Daaé tomb towered over everything. I was at a loss to figure out why Christine Daaé was being buried in a little plot near the church when her family had already purchased this monstrosity, complete with marble columns and a complement of marble hangers-on that would have made an emperor happy to be moldering within. How could a penniless violinist afford something like this? If Daddy Daae had this kind of money, why did he blow it all on the Taj Majal of tombs, leaving his beloved daughter to make her living as an opera girl? It boggled the imagination.

The Shade held Madame Giry's key up to the decorative carving around the base of one of Daaé's many stone angels. The design matched the shape of the key perfectly. "Have you tried the lock yet?" I asked.

The Shade shook his head, "Yes, but I couldn't open the doors alone. I think the hinges have rusted into place. Hopefully, the three of us," he glanced down at my dress, "Make that two of us, will be enough to break the door down."

Roule took off his dress sword and handed it to me for safekeeping. He'd dressed to the nines for the funeral, but it wasn't a convenient gear for wrestling with a heavy door. I stepped out of the way while the two men used their combined weight against the copper paneling. There was probably some kind of oak underneath. The Daaé tomb had been built to last for a very long time. The door budged a few inches with a heavy groan. The rusted hinges were breaking. I thought about shouting something largely useless such as, "Be careful!" or "I think the entire thing is going to fall down so maybe you two might want to step back!" but I didn't see much point in it. In general, people are smart enough to figure these things out without the assistance of a bystander who isn't actually doing any of the work.

The door came down with a crash that sent up a billowing cloud of what I could only hope was dust and cobwebs. The hinges had broken off completely. As far as I was aware, there were no zombies, vampires or any hint of a possibility that such things ever did or ever could exist in Leroux's novel. If the Daaé tomb was, contrary to all logic, crawling with any such things, there was nothing to be done about it now. There was no way we could repair the door even if we wanted to.

I gathered up my skirts and joined the men in peering into the Daaé tomb. It was dark and smelled of damp and age. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and stepped back quickly. There were spiders everywhere- crawling on the walls, skittering across the floor and stretching their webs across every which way. I can handle demented cellar-dwelling sociopaths, but I draw the line at getting spiders in my hair. Unfortunately, if I came out and admitted that I was stone petrified, I might well never hear the end of it. I had insisted on coming here, after all. I decided that this would be a very good time to let the men lead the way without comment.

Roule and the Shade had already stepped inside the tomb. They were looking for some kind of light. Whoever had been there last had left some candles behind in wrought iron holders. In my experience of tombs, people generally don't leave a great deal of furniture and fixtures in them. There really wouldn't be any point to it. However, in books, tombs are always fixed up with torches or candles or even electric lighting. We were in a book, so there you are. The Shade produced a box of matches from one of his pockets.

There were bones everywhere. Skulls were piled up against the opposite wall. Skeletons rested haphazardly in recessed catacombs. It was as if this place was being used as a catch all for any excess dead who happened to be in need of a resting place.

"Roule," I ventured, "Do you remember the chapter where you follow Christine to Perros and Erik is hiding there? Is this the place?"

"I don't remember any of it, actually," admitted Roule, "It's as if it never happened."

"Or it happened, but you weren't there." The Shade suggested. "Raoul goes to Perros. I don't know where Roule goes."

"What exactly are you trying to say?" Roule bristled.

"I'm not even sure myself", the Shade admitted.

I decided it was time to change the subject, "I don't see anything out here that looks like a clue, unless there's something in that big coffin over there."

There was one huge coffin, right in the center of the room. It was covered in dust, but even so I could see that it was made from expensive ebony and decorated in intricate silver filigree. I used Roule's sword to sweep some of the larger spider webs out of my path, but I couldn't quite muster up the guts to step forward. If you've ever been bitten by a spider, then you understand my dilemma.

The Shade walked past me, and held a candle over the plaque on the coffin. "This is Daaé's coffin, the answer must be inside."

Roule ran over to help the Shade lift the lid. I hovered nearby with candles in one hand and Roule's sword in the other. There was a sharp sound as the lid gave way suddenly. I came closer with the light to get a better look. There was a skeleton in rotting clothes, covered in dust. It looked like it had been there for a hundred years, but Daaé had been dead for no more than six years, if I was remembering rightly. The skeleton clutched something in its hands. The Shade reached in and dislodged something smallish and white from the corpse's grasp.

"It's a mask!" Roule cried.

"No," said the Shade, "It's a piece of a mask."

Roule began to say something, but I put my hand up to silence him. I heard something outside. Carefully, I laid down my candle and gathered up my skirts. I still had Roule's sword and I was prepared to use it, if need be. Peeking outside of the door, I realized what the sound was. It was singing. I moved as quietly and cautiously as possible.

The imposter Christine was wandering in the churchyard, singing a tuneless little song to herself. I didn't want to disturb whatever she thought she was doing, on the other hand this wasn't a safe place for a young woman alone even if she was an imposter on the other hand I had just helped break into "her father's" tomb and it wasn't something that I could explain adequately.

I hesitated for a moment too long. The imposter Christine saw me. Her features twisted into a look that I couldn't quite decipher. She pointed a finger at me and yelled, "You! What are you doing here!"

I was about to reply when I heard a noise above me. I looked up and saw a dark figure standing on the roof of the Daae tomb. It leapt down, black cape billowing out behind it and for a moment, I thought we might have actually disturbed a real ghost… but real ghosts don't generally brandish swords.

I prepared to defend myself.


	12. Foibles of Love

"You dare to disobey me!" cried the figure in black, brandishing his sword.

"I promised to find Christine's murderer," I shouted back, "I did not agree to take orders from you!"

With a sudden cry of rage, Erik lunged forward. I raised Roule's sword to parry the blow, but it was obvious to me that I was in over my head. Erik's maniacal strength was far more than I would be able to handle. I braced myself, but Erik's strike never came. The Shade leapt in front of me and blocked Erik with a heavy iron candleholder.

"Playing the hero are you?" sneered Erik, as he struck with enough force to break one of the arms off the Shade's makeshift weapon.

"It's better than playing the villain," the Shade shot back as he went on the offensive, swinging the candelabra with both hands as if it was a broad sword. It was Erik's turn to back off.

I hovered nearby, close enough to throw Roule's sword to the Shade if he was disarmed. The imposter Christine was standing with her mouth agape, looking like a rather surprised codfish. She seemed completely unaware that there was a dangerous sword-candleholder fight happening in her general vicinity. Roule ran to her side to draw her away, but she ignored him. She started walking towards the fight, as if she was hypnotized or drugged. She didn't seem to understand or care about the danger.

"Angel?" The imposter Christine asked in a strange voice, "Angel is that you?"

Erik turned at the sound of her voice, giving the Shade the opening he needed. In a single blow, the Shade disarmed Erik and knocked him to the ground. Erik looked up at the Shade with an expression of pure rage and loathing as the Shade held him in check with the candleholder.

"My God," I whispered, "Look at his eyes. They aren't yellow!"

We all paused to look. It was true. Erik wore the same black silk mask, but his eyes had changed. Instead of staring at us with glowing yellow orbs, sunk into hollow skull, he stared at us with the eyes of a normal man. Underneath his mask, I could see the outline of a nose.

"Should we unmask him?" asked Roule.

The Shade considered for a moment before responding through gritted teeth, "Do it," he said looking directly at Erik with an expression I could not fathom.

"No!" cried the imposter Christine, darting forward not towards Erik but towards his sword, which had lain unnoticed on the ground. "Let him go or else!"

Imposter Christine advanced on the Shade, who couldn't defend himself without letting Erik go free. I stepped between them and blocked her way, "We will do nothing of the kind," I informed the imposter.

"Get away from him, you evil woman!" The imposter Christine lunged at me and I parried her blow. Roule rushed at her from behind, but she sensed the attack and struck him across the face with the handle of her sword. He fell down, stunned and bleeding.

"Look who's talking!" I snapped back and went on the offensive. Imposter Christine jumped back. She slashed at me, but was too far away to strike home. I parried to keep her at a distance. I wasn't skilled enough with a blade to feel myself at an advantage, and my opponent's blows were so wild and uncontrolled that although I didn't think she was likely to manage a killing blow, I was in some danger of being maimed if I wasn't careful. Christine turned and ran. I followed her, darting around various statues and monuments, but careful to keep her always in my sight until she slipped behind a large stone sarcophagus.

I backed away silently, using my free hand to keep my skirts from rustling in the dry leaves and betraying my location. I couldn't hear Christine moving, but that didn't mean she wasn't ready to attack. "Christine?" I ventured, "Can we talk about this?"

I was answered with silence. Keeping my sword at the ready, I edged forward but still nothing. I didn't like the idea of rushing around the sarcophagus, but it was my best option. I had no hope of climbing over in my heavy skirts, and if I moved too slowly, Christine would be able to strike a blow before I had a chance to see where she was. I steeled myself and fairly flew around the corner of the stone monument to find no one there. Christine had used my hesitation to her advantage. I looked out into the misty churchyard. Both Christine and I were wearing black dresses that blended into the shadows. I decided that it was too dangerous to follow her, not when she had the advantage of surprise.

I began to back away, careful to keep at the ready in case imposter Christine was nearby. I couldn't see her, but I heard her voice, "Why are you ruining everything? I'll save you, my angel of music!"

I couldn't place where she was, her voice echoed among the graves. "Christine," I called out, "This person is not your father or an angel. He is a kidnapper and a murderer."

"I know," Christine's voice called back, "But it doesn't matter because he's doing it for me!"

"Wait… what?" I said.

"Wait… what?" said the Shade.

"Wait… what?" said Roule.

In the shock of the moment, I dropped my guard. The imposter Christine flew out from behind a tree not ten paces away from me and rushed towards me with her sword drawn, pointing straight at me. It was too late to parry and the blow struck home. I fell to my knees as the imposter Christine dropped her sword and ran to Erik's side.

"Goddammit!" yelled the Shade, throwing down the candleholder and running towards me. Roule had since recovered and quickly stepped in to keep Erik at bay, brandishing a heavy tree branch.

If not for the steel busk of my corset, I would have been dead. Christine had intended to stab me through, but had glanced off the steel front of my stays, cutting a gash in my side. I was injured but very much alive. The wound was not too deep, thanks to the protection afforded by the boning in my corset and the heavy layers of my clothing but it was bleeding profusely. I clutched my side and tried not to look down too often. My hands were already red and slick from trying to staunch the blood.

"Don't let them get away," the Shade yelled back to Roule as he knelt down beside me. "You need a doctor. We have to get back to Paris." The Shade unwound one of the scarves that he wore around his neck and wrapped it around the wound. He scooped me up into his arms like it was nothing.

"There's a carriage just over there by the trees," Roule called to us, "But there isn't room to take these two with us."

"They can walk back to Paris for all I care." The Shade replied in acid tones. I think the remark was meant for Erik, but I was beyond caring. I was bleeding right through the Shade scarf and starting to feel a little dizzy.

"Now it will be war between us." Erik's voice growled. It might have been the blood loss, but it sounded as if he was smiling as he spoke. It sounded like he was happy about it.

"Like it wasn't before," the Shade muttered under his breath. I think one of his scarves must have slipped, because he moved his head and I felt a rough cheek brush against my forehead but I might have been dreaming or hallucinating by then.


	13. Narrow Escape

I have never had very much sympathy for the sort of person who get injured and then proceeds to behave like a complete and utter prat, if only because their delicate condition provides a convenient excuse for it. I had no intention of passing out, putting in my oar when it wasn't required, attempting any sort of misguided heroic antics making absurd declarations that I would most certainly regret if I survived,. I resolved to focus on sitting quietly until we could find someone to patch up the seeping gash in my side.

"Stay with me," said the Shade.

"What?" I murmured.

"You passed out for a minute there."

I said that I made resolutions. I didn't say that I kept them.

Roule began to drive us back to the church but as we passed through the trees, I could see a plume of black smoke in the distance. The ingenious plane had been ingeniously sabotaged. "What do we do now?" Roule wondered aloud.

"Ask Madame Giry," I mumbled, leaning heavily on the Shade, "She always knows everything."

Getting men to ask anyone for directions is a losing proposition. Luckily, when a person is slowly bleeding to death, other people have no choice but to take them seriously, or risk looking like insensitive pigs.

"There she is!" Roule cried. "Madame Giry! We need your help!"

Roule quickly explained the situation. Madame Giry listened intently and then told him, "Well, the De Chagny Estate is hours away. Your only option is to drive through the German lines into Paris. It should take you about ten minutes."

"But Paris is a long train journey with two changeovers an hour long ride by bus followed by a twenty minute cab journey from Perros," said Roule.

"That's true," replied Madame Giry, "But it takes ten minutes by carriage." She continued, "It's only September 16th, so the German lines haven't encircled the city quite yet. One army is camped to the north of the city and the other army is at the south. If you enter from the west, you should be able to narrowly avoid the troops. However, by tomorrow, the city will be completely surrounded. Once you're in Paris, you won't be able to leave until we establish that Gaston Leroux probably meant our story to take place in the early 1880's. After all, he promised me that Meg would be an empress in 1885. At this rate, it hardly seems worth bothering over."

"We have no choice," said the Shade, "We have to go to Paris."

"When you get there, find the Persian in the Rue Rivoli. He knows how to take care of these things. It some mumbo jumbo he picked up in Persia," Madame Giry sagely counseled us.

Ten minutes later, we were outside of Paris, surrounded by a sea of human beings. There were hundreds of people and wagons, all headed in the opposite direction. Everyone with any sense at all was fleeing the city in the last moments before the Germans would completely surround the city, beginning the siege in earnest. As we pushed through the flood of humanity, I wondered if this was a wise choice. The bombardment of the city was already in progress. From now on, we would face greater dangers than a mere lunatic would-be-opera-star with a sword and some kind of father complex.

"We'll be safer if we stick to the side streets and alleys. The Germans are targeting the main streets and squares." The Shade told Roule, who was almost as good at navigating a carriage as a plane. He swerved gently to avoid a family on foot, and then shifted direction again as an old man passed by with a donkey pulling a cart that likely contained everything he owned.

Paris smelled of smoke and gunpowder. This was not Gaston Leroux's Paris at all. This was more akin to the combat zone Victor Hugo envisioned in _Les Miserables._ From time to time, I could hear the thunder of mortar shells and the strange roar of a crowd of people screaming in the distance. There was so much noise that it took me some time to realize that I had begun to hear specific voices rising from the multitude.

We had turned into a dark alley not far from the Rue Rivoli. This was a dangerous part of the city- the kind of place where you could see people lying in the street any time of day and you never knew if they were sleeping, dead drunk or just plain dead. In addition to smoke, I could smell the reek of urine and stale clothing. I began to think that we would have been better off risking mortal shells in the main streets. I concentrated on the sound of the horses hooves on the stone street, trying to shut out the sounds of a war that didn't belong to us or our novel, but I couldn't quite shut out all the cries. Then I realized what I was hearing.

"We have to go back!" I cried.

Roule started to turn the carriage but we were already too late. As long as there have been wars, there have been scavengers who profit from the conflict. Gangs of ruffians were roaming the backstreets of Paris, looking for a chance to steal from the dead and from the living. They were hoping that some of the unwary citizens would fall into their path, hopefully laden down with as many valuables as possible. Four grubby men armed with makeshift clubs had appeared behind us. They must have been hiding between the buildings in wait for anyone unwise enough to pass this way. Three more thugs stepped from the shadows just ahead of us. One of them was armed with a pistol.

"Hold on!" Roule shouted as he whipped the horse, driving straight at our attackers. Shocked they jumped out of the way. The Shade grabbed Roule's sword and leapt from the open carriage, striking down the man with the pistol before he had a chance to fire. The other two men grabbed the bridle of our horse from either side to stop us in our tracks. The four men behind us advanced to join their comrades. The Shade was ready for them.

My eye lit on the pistol which was abandoned on the ground when its owner fell. I knew that I had to get it before anyone got to me. I wrapped one arm around my wounded side and braced myself. I've been told that people in great distress have been able to manage tremendous feats of strength that could never have been accomplished under normal circumstances. Hence, this was as good a time as any to put it to the test.

I used my free hand to open the carriage door and crawled out on my hands and knees. Nearby, one of our attackers was trying to drag Roule from the driver's seat. The other man saw me and realized what I was up to. He ran towards me as I hit the ground with a thud. The pistol was right under me. I felt as if I struggled with my skirts for an eternity but it can't have been more than a second or two before the pistol was in my grasp. The man stopped in his tracks. I looked him right in the eyes and fired. He looked surprised and then he crumpled. I felt utterly sick.

The Shade yelled over his shoulder as he held off the four men behind us, "Get her out of here! Go!"

Roule dispatched the last of the three front men with stab from Erik's blade. We'd taken it with us, rather than leave Erik the means of attacking us again. My hands were shaking too much to hold the pistol, and I didn't have the strength to use it as a cudgel. Roule started to pull me away and I resisted.

"No! That idiot is going to get himself killed if you don't help him." I insisted as Roule tried to lift me up.

"Go now!" The Shade screamed. "Go now and leave me behind!"

I started to protest but a wave of pain silenced me. Roule caught me by the waist and dragged me towards the carriage. He quickly unhitched the horse, which immediately tried to bolt in a state of complete terror. Roule calmed the animal as I looked back in utter desperation at the seemingly in surmountable odds against the Shade. It was true that he had a sword and they were only armed with makeshift clubs, but there were four of them and the smallest must have outweighed the Shade by a good forty pounds.

Roule pulled me onto the horse as gently as he could, given the circumstances. I didn't want to go, but I knew that it would have been foolish not to. We galloped for the Rue Rivoli, arriving at the Persian's flat within minutes. We had been only two blocks away, but cities can be like that. The nicest neighborhoods can be adjacent to the worst ones. Roule pounded on the Persian's door until the Persian himself answered.

The Persian looked me over, and his gaze lit immediately on the blood-soaked scarf tied around my bodice. Good lord," he said, "You must come inside at once!"

"Go back and help the Shade," I pleaded with Roule, "That idiot is going to get himself killed."

"Yes," said the Persian, "You can't do us any good here. Go be an idiot."

Roule nodded and rushed off, sword at the ready.

"As for you," said the Persian, "Do you think you're going to pass out? Because if so, now would be a good time."

"What? Oh."

I collapsed into the Persian's arms as everything went mercifully black.


	14. The Opposite of Progress

When I awoke, I was shocked to find myself in one piece. The wound was almost completely healed. It was incomprehensible. Granted, it hadn't been all that deep and I had probably suffered more from loss of blood than anything else. All the same, when you'd think I would have had a few stitches at the very least. I peeled back the bandage to get a better look. There was a bit of a scab and some redness but that was the extent of my formerly life-threatening wound. The world had turned utterly ridiculous within the space of a day.

I was lying on a nice normal little bed in a nice normal little room with a plain quilt and drapes printed with those ugly cabbage roses. I cannot understand what people see in that print. I was wearing a simple nightgown. My dress and corset were nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, you're awake! I'll go and tell Nadir!" cried the most irritatingly perky voice I had ever heard in my life. I was not alone.

The owner of the voice was a girl with long blond hair, dressed for no good reason in a practice tutu. Her face looked vaguely familiar, except for a patch covering her right eye and an angry red scar that ran from her right cheek into the temple. The effect was best described as lopsided pirate-ballerina. I tried to muster up something akin to surprise and failed. The girl could have morphed into Binky the Wonder Chimp and danced the polka while singing the entire score of Le Roi de Lahore and I wouldn't have been surprised by that either.

"Who, precisely, is Nadir?" I asked.

"The Persian's name is Nadir! I thought everyone knew that!"

The Persian's name isn't Nadir. I don't actually know what his name is because Leroux never mentions it and Erik always called him "daroga." Hence, if everybody knows that the Persian's name is "Nadir" then everybody is out of their minds.

I decided not to antagonize the crazy girl, since I had suddenly realized where I'd seen this girl before, "So, ummm Meg? It is Meg, isn't it?"

"Actually," said the Meg-girl, "You can call me 'Meghan.' I don't really want to be Meg anymore."

This was something entirely new. Since when can we decide not to be our character anymore? It's not as if I like playing the evil bitch singer all so the reader doesn't have to get mad at Christine for letting Erik promote her over me in the most underhanded and mean-spirited way. I looked at Meghan the Pirate Ballerina and wondered when she had lost her eye.

"If you don't mind my asking, Meghan, what happened to your face?"

Meghan the Pirate Ballerina looked a little sheepish, "Well, you remember the gang outside? They tried to kidnap me and sell me into slavery. I resisted and they beat me in the face until I was deformed like Erik."

As far as I know, Erik is deformed all over.

Meghan the Pirate Ballerina sniffled a bit and continued her story. "In my story, Erik takes me in and we fall in love because I can understand his pain. I don't think I want to do that though. Erik is kind of scary and Christine won't talk to me and having someone beat your face in here isn't like it is in my story at all." With that, she burst into tears.

I looked around for a handkerchief, but nothing came to hand. I decided to make do and stripped one of the pillows of its case, which I offered to Meghan. She said something that I took to be "Thank you" although it sounded more like "moofulluh" because her face was buried in the pillow case.

"If it's not too much trouble, Meghan, can you tell me what happened to my dress? I think it's time I went down and found out what happened to the boys."

"Your dress was ruined," Meghan sniffled, "It was all torn up and bloody. I think Nadir said it should be burnt. Also, he said that the color didn't suit you at all."

I hate Nadir.

"There are some Persian robes in the armoire," offered Meghan, "You can wear those until you can find another dress."

I rummaged in the armoire until I found a white silk shift with embroider trim, a robe to go over it in violet silk with gold trim and a gold silk sash to tie the whole mess together. In other words, I looked like an escapee from a bad production of Abduction from the Seraglio. I ran a brush through my hair and made a quick braid in the back. I had no idea where all my hairpins had got to and I decided that I really didn't want to ask.

"Did you at least manage to save my shoes?" I asked.

"You can't wear black boots with that outfit," said Meghan, "Here, I'll get you some slippers to go with it."

I have been reduced to taking sartorial advice from a pirate in a tutu.

I followed Meghan downstairs to meet the mysterious "Nadir" who turned out to be the daroga after all. He offered us tea, which I accepted gratefully.

I had been out cold for the past three hours. When the two men did not return promptly, the daroga had sent his servant Darius to check on them. Darius had not returned either, but Nadir was confident that a rescue was in progress and that we need not concern ourselves about the matter.

"Leroux never kills major characters," explained the daroga.

I pointed out that someone had killed Christine less than 24 hours ago and if she wasn't a major character, then who was?

"I don't believe that our author was responsible for this. It is, forgive me for saying so, terrible storytelling. Who would kill Christine when she hasn't even made her debut yet? Where is the character development? Why should the reader care that a minor opera singer has been dispatched? No, this is a stupid plot. Much too stupid for Leroux."

"So, do you think we're involved in some kind of a murder mystery?"

"It has all the hallmarks of a poorly composed mystery. Tell me, have you found clues?"

I explained about the note, the key and the mask, all of which were tucked away in the Shade's pockets, wherever he happened to be.

"So this is a scavenger hunt where one clue leads to the next, rather than a traditional mystery. Clearly the mask is meant to lead you to the next clue."

"Yes," I said, "but what does it mean?"

"What did the mask look like?"

"It was only a piece of a mask, but it wasn't Erik's. It was white instead of black and it didn't have a strap or anything to hold it on his face. It looked like something you couldn't wear at all."

"Could it have been, perhaps, part of a costume?"

"Oh I know the answer!" Meghan squealed. "It's a masquerade mask!"

"Yes," said Nadir, "That's what I was getting at. The masquerade ball is tonight. All you need to do is find masks and you can slip back into the opera house unnoticed to search for the next clue."

I decided that I would have to make a stop at my dressmakers. There was no way I'd be caught sneaking about the opera house only partially dressed again. However, before doing any of that, we'd have to find out what had happened to the men.

"There's an entrance to the gang's lair around the corner on Evil Gang Street. Just follow the signs," said Nadir, "In the meantime, I'll slip into the opera house to see if the door-openers have seen anything suspicious in the meantime."

"I'd avoid Erik and his crazy girlfriend if I were you," I warned him.

"Yes, she is very crazy, this girlfriend. Meghan was kind enough to warn me. Who is the more crazy, the crazy man or the crazy woman who wants to be his girlfriend?"

I know what my answer would be.

We parted ways and agreed to meet again at the masquerade that evening.


	15. Answers Smacking Us in the Face

If someone had told me yesterday that I'd be wearing a purple bathrobe and wandering the streets of Paris with a woman in a tutu and ballet slippers, I'd have thought they were mad. You would think that half the population of the city would be pointing and laughing at the spectacle, but no one gave us so much as a second glance. All the same, I wasn't at all sure that I wanted to go into a place called "Evil Gang Street" half-dressed. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure that I wanted to go there without some weapons and small army of men to use them, in which case I'd hardly need to go there with them. I had my doubts about how much assistance two unarmed women could provide, under the circumstances. The best I could hope for would be that they'd take one look at us and laugh themselves to death.

Luckily, the whole matter was rendered moot by the arrival of Raoul, the Shade and Darius, all looking somewhat the worse for wear and far too pleased with themselves. I began to silently count down the minutes before proud would turn to smug followed by thoroughly insufferable, if it hadn't happened already.

"You're all alive!" I cried, very much in spite of myself.

"My heroes!" squealed Meg, as she rushed forward to hug them all in turn. I confess, I felt a little jealous that propriety and the somewhat diaphanous nature of my ensemble prevented me from doing the same.

"It was horrifying!" said Raoul, as he disentangled himself from Meg's enthusiastic embraces, "There were ballet girls everywhere!"

"Did you rescue them?" I inquired, almost fearing the answer.

"No, but we've rescued the gang members. They've gone off to fight and sing on a barricade across town." The Shade answered, then added, "The ballerinas informed us that Erik was coming to save them. Then they made disparaging comments about Raoul and tried to attack us. We barely escaped with our lives."

"You mean you've been beaten up by a bunch of ballet girls?"

Raoul appeared to be blushing, "Well, you see, they weren't so much as attacking as…" Raoul's paused to choose his words, "…making advances."

Although I couldn't see the Shade's mouth, I could tell he was smirking, because he was smirking all the way up to his eyeballs. Insufferable, indeed. Had circumstances been different, I would have gathered up my bathrobe and stormed away in a huff.

"Well, I'm glad you've all been enjoying yourselves while the world goes to Hell in a handbasket." I said tartly.

"If we're going to Hell, I don't see any reason why we can't enjoy the trip." The Shade quipped back, still smirking.

"Thank Heaven, you've escaped," Meg continued to gush, "I don't know how we would have rescued you!"

"I don't know why we would have rescued you," I muttered under my breath, half hoping that someone would hear me, but if they did, they didn't care. Aloud, I continued, "The Persian thinks that the mask we found was meant to lead us to the masquerade ball tonight."

"Well, that would explain the way you're dressed." Said the Shade, still in fine form.

"Yes," I shot back, "We've decided to go dressed as complete idiots, so that we won't need to get you a costume," and then immediately regretted it. "Sorry, I'm not used to be stabbed and chased and all that, and I'm all out of sorts. We'll go to my dressmakers. I'm sure they'll have something that would do for the opera ball, just so we won't be completely conspicuous."

"That sounds like an excellent plan," said Darius, "I will go back to the daroga and tell him of all this, but first I think I'll check up on all the ballerinas." And with that, he slipped away. I'm sure he never had this much fun in Leroux's plot.

I took Meg by the arm and led the way. Although Gaston Leroux never specified anything about my life outside of the opera house, no diva, not even a fictional one, can exist without a team of hairdressers, dressmakers and assorted assistance. Therefore, they need not actually be mentioned by the author in order to exist, they are part of a diva's world by definition.

"Meg, you said you were in another story, is that right?" Meg nodded assent, "Can you tell me how you came to be here?"

"I don't really know," Meg answered, "It's like this is the world of my story, only it isn't. I was supposed to be in the opera house with Christine, like my story always begins, but then there were all these other people and then that blonde girl was killed, and everyone said she was Christine, but in my story, she isn't. Christine in my story has curly brown hair and she keeps Erik from realizing that he really loves me up until the end when she leaves with Raoul."

"And this is the story where you're beaten up by a gang?" I asked.

"Oh yes, but that happens after Christine is gone. A young aristocrat falls in love with me, but he's actually a bad man and he knocks me out with plank and when I wake up, they're trying to sell me into slavery, but I resist and they beat me. Then Erik saves me and nurses me back to health, and since I'm scarred, I can truly understand him and we can hide together forever."

"My, that's an awfully interesting…" I began, but Meg cut me off.

"It's an awful story. None of it makes sense at all."

"Sort of like it makes no sense here."

"Well," said Meg, "We can't be in my story. In my story, having one tiny scar on your face passes for hideously deformed, but here everyone still thinks I look fine, eye patch and all."

"I'm just wondering if we're still in Gaston Leroux's story."


	16. Different Disguises

Several hours later, I was happily admiring my reflection. I looked utterly stunning, if I did say so myself, in a miracle of midnight blue velvet and sliver stars. A diadem of sparkling stars with a matching veil and mask completed the ensemble. My genius of a dressmaker had scaled down a man's costume to suit Meg, to make her into a perfect little Pirate Queen. Raoul wore a military costume that someone else had failed to claim and the Shade was, well still the Shade, but at least he was a clean bag of clothes instead of a scruffy one. On the whole, it was excellent work for an afternoon, and I was very pleased with the result.

I hadn't had much chance to talk with the gentlemen, but I did manage to pry a little more information from Meg while we were being pinned and draped into our new finery. It seemed that most of her story was set up as a series of pseudo-romantic situations, tied together by the weakest of plots and interspersed with quite a few detailed descriptions of tutus and various other items of apparel. Her Erik was not entirely unlike the Erik we had seen at the graveyard. Certainly, he wasn't the cadaverous apparition we a wacky, if homicidal, sense of humor that we had all come to know and… well, had come to know. Our worlds seemed to be both colliding and changing.

We hired a carriage to bring us to the "Opera Populaire" our brand new imaginary opera house which had replaced the yet-to-be-built Palais Garnier in siege-torn Paris. I can't imagine what sort of madman plans a masquerade party in the middle of city under siege, but it wasn't at all out-of-character given the recent events. Meg tried to make chatter, but we all drifted into an uncomfortable silence. I stared out the window at what was left of Paris as we passed by. I didn't remember there being so many Austrian crystal shops, paste necklaces had apparently become exceedingly stylish overnight. By that standard, I was the most fashionable woman in town, because every last one of my jewels was false as false could be, even if they did give off a satisfactory sparkle.

The Opera Populaire was ablaze with lights and what I hoped were fireworks. They might have been mortal shells exploding. It was hard to tell. There was a tremendous crush of people trying to fit into the tiny new opera house. I recognized the managers hovering near the door, in order to be the first to greet anyone who might be influential. My hopes of being incognito were dashed when they began waving and gesturing as I walked by.

"La Carlotta! Diva!" The managers cried, just about falling over themselves as they rushed to my side.

"Isn't wonderful?" Said the shorter manager, "Not a sign of the phantom in the last 24 hours, clearly he's left for good."

"This means that you'll be able to sing the gala tomorrow without any more problems!" the taller manager added.

"Except that I don't sing the gala, Christine does." I reminded them.

"Oh dear me, I'd forgotten about that…" said the shorter manager, possible Montcharmin.

"Yes, indeed, Christine will be singing…" said the taller manager, who might or might not have been Richard.

"Won't that be nice!" I said cheerily, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go in and mingle." I extricated myself from the managers' frantic attempts to kiss my hand over and over and went inside. Meg, Raoul and the Shade had gone on ahead of me and were nowhere to be seen.

I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking for, or where to look for it. I threaded my way around the grand stairway, narrowly avoiding partygoers who were already somewhat the worse for drink.

"Erik will be here soon," a voice whispered behind me, "You're not safe here. Come with me!"

I turned around half-expecting to see the Shade, but instead I found myself face to face with a man in a white domino, much like the one Christine instructs Raoul to wear to the ball, or would have instructed him anyway. The figure took me by the hand and began to pull me away from the party, down the hallway which would lead us into the backstage areas of the house. "Wait," I said, "Where are we going?"

"To the roof!" The figure replied.

"The roof? Who are you?"

"I'm Gaston Leroux."


	17. Above the Rooftop

"Hurry, there is no time!" The white domino whispered, pulling me along with him through the crush room and past the hallways where the box attendants awaited orders from the patrons. Once or twice, he stopped and seemed to be listening for something, but it would have been hard to hear anything over the noise of music and voices coming from the grand stairway and the rotunda. "They'll be serving supper soon, and he'll make his appearance afterwards!"

"You mean Erik, don't you?" I asked, clutching my heavy skirts in my free hand as I struggled to keep up.

"Who else?" Said the white domino, "You need to get away from here before he comes. We don't have much time and I have a great deal to tell you!"

The white domino pushed a curtain aside, revealing a doorway. We slipped through into the backstage area of the theater. "We must avoid the trapdoors, keep going!" cried the white domino, as we ran past the rooms where the costumes and sets were constructed, up a wooden stairway to the ballet studios- empty of dancers for the time being, they would all be going to supper, hoping to find a rich man to buy them diamonds and pay for their promotion through the rows- and now up again, through rooms I had never seen before. These were areas of the theater that were not meant to be viewed by the public, or by the performers. Above us and all around us, I could see the bare framework of beams and foundations that supported 17 stories and five basements below us.

We slipped through the maze of buttresses and rafters to emerge onto the roof, where the statue of Apollo's Lyre looked down from above over the secret place where Christine and Raoul had declared their forbidden love- not realizing that Erik had been hidden nearby the entire time. I suppose it hadn't occurred to them that a man who could build a house five stories underground was probably well-acquainted with stairways and how to use them.

"Just a little further," said the white domino, pulling me towards Apollo's Lyre. I had only seen it from a distance, but it didn't look entirely the way I remembered it. The statue was raised on a stone platform at the center front of the roof. I remembered two statues at the front of the roof and another statue on top of the great copper dome, but perhaps I had been mistaken. I never really knew which on was which. The white domino helped me onto the stone dais. "Hold on," he said and with a wave of his hand, the platform began to rise into the air, higher and higher until I could look out and see all of the opera house and indeed all of Paris, far down below us.

"You really must be Gaston Leroux," I breathed, awestruck, "I've never seen anyone do anything like this before."

"Almost, I'm Gaston Leroux's avatar within the novel. I am Gaston Leroux and yet I am not the Gaston Leroux who lived and died in the flesh and blood world. I suppose you might say that I'm his ghost. I have his memories and feelings and I serve his interests. You may call me 'Leroux', for simplicity's sake."

"How is that possible?"

"When I wrote _The Phantom of the Opera_, I included a character that was meant to allow me to influence the plot from behind the scenes. It's not a character that the reader would actually meet or notice particularly. In fact, I am not included in any version of The Phantom of the Opera other than Gaston Leroux's book."

"Other versions? You meet like the one that Meg, I mean the blonde Meg, talked about?" I asked.

"Yes and no. Your new friend came from someone's interpretation of my story, but not a version of any importance. A lot has happened since our book was published. Other people have created their own versions of our story, and some of them are very famous- perhaps more so than the book that inspired them. Your friend's story is one of hundreds of similar stories that were inspired in one way or another by our story."

"So there's a version of _The Phantom of the Opera_ where Meg is blonde and Erik is handsome and they end up together?"

"Not quite, my dear, not quite. Your friend is a MarySue. Perhaps we should call her MegSue, just for the sake of clarity. She is a character who was written so that the author might insert herself into her story, so that she could live out a fantasy through her writing."

"Does that mean that she is like you, and has special powers? Is that how she was able to come here?"

"I'm afraid not," sighed Leroux, "I was created to be unobtrusive, so that I could manipulate the story from behind the scenes. For example, I could tell Philippe where to find Erik's lair or I might make a sound with a trapdoor, so that Christine would think that she could not be safe without climbing all the way to the roof. I am not meant to be noticed or seen, so the author could imagine that I am somewhat omnipotent without ruining his story. A MarySue is meant to be obtrusive. MarySues are the stars of their stories, but they are written in such a way that their presence disrupts the narrative and destroys the reader's belief. Without the reader's belief, none of us can have any real power."

"So MegSue isn't the ghost of her story's author?"

"No," Leroux replied, "She is only a badly written character from a story that will soon be forgotten, one among many who have infiltrated my book, or at least, that's what she was."

I gazed at Leroux in mute confusion. Authors inserting themselves into books? Characters who pulled the reader out of a novel rather than drawing them in? What was going on?"

"Since she has been here, MegSue has developed as a character. She's no longer one-dimensional and she has lost some of the qualities and attributes that made her character unworkable. She has become a real character in this story, as have you and some others."

"I was a MarySue?" I gasped in utter disbelief.

"Certainly not, but you weren't a well-rounded character either. You were written into the story to fill an empty space. Christine could hardly become the new Marguerite unless there was an old Marguerite for her to replace. In my novel, you have no back-story, and no development. The reader never even hears you speak. You simply sing, and then you disappear."

"I remember," I said uncertainly, "At least, I think I do. I was just there, doing things but not having any reason behind it, and I do know this much, this story is not _The Phantom of the Opera_."

"No, it is not, and your first instincts, way back in chapter one were correct. If we do not undo the changes and restore the original plot soon, _The Phantom of the Opera_ will cease to be. We will go out of print permanently."


	18. Questions and Decisions

The cold night air made a noise like a sigh as it blew across the roof of the opera house, but no one was watching us from below or above, not this time. Although the night sky was perfectly clear, a light dusting of snow began to fall. It defied both logic and the laws of physics, but it was beautiful all the same. I looked down on Paris below me and wondered how Christine had felt when she brought her lover here and confessed that she loved him for the very first time.

"So how did all of this come to be?" I asked, "Why now?"

"I imagine that it's a matter of belief. When I wrote The Phantom of the Opera, people read it and believed in the world that I created. Now they may still read my book, but that isn't the world that they choose to believe. The power of their collective belief blurred the edges of our world so that characters could cross the borders between stories."

"Does that mean there's nothing we can do?" I asked, "Why go through all this trouble if there's nothing we can do?"

"Oh there is something we can do," replied Leroux, "Somewhere, hidden in this world, there is a pristine copy of my original manuscript for The Phantom of the Opera. If I read from it aloud, the world of my novel will be restored. Christine will be returned to life. It will be as if none of this ever happened."

"So where do we find it? Who has the manuscript?"

"Well, who do you think has it?"

That was a good question. I'd have guessed Erik immediately, but he would never have killed Christine, would he? He'd have rewritten the book so that Christine fell in love with him and they lived happily ever after in the sewers. So, if it wasn't Erik, then who was it?

"It must be that Christine," I said at last, "That ChristineSue who was with Erik at the graveyard. She would be the one to benefit if the real Christine was out of the way, and she was there when Christine was killed. Erik didn't look like himself at the cemetery, but if ChristineSue is writing the story, then she'd change him to the handsome Erik from MegSue's world."

"I cannot say for sure, but I believe that if you find ChristineSue, then you will find the manuscript."

"But aren't you an omnipotent narrator, in a way? Don't you know where it is? Can't you just open up a wall and take it?"

"I'm afraid that those things are no longer within my power. I can make a few changes in the scenery, like raising Apollo's Lyre to a place where no one can hear our conversation, but I cannot change the plot anymore than you or any other character can, not unless I have the manuscript."

"So the manuscript is with ChristineSue and ChristineSue is with Erik, somewhere in the cellars under the opera house and if the one doesn't kill us, the other probably will."

"There's something else that I must tell you," said Leroux.

Well, things can't get any worse now can they?

"You're out of character. You and all of your friends are completely out of character. When my novel is restored to its proper form, you will lose all of your character development. You will once again be a placeholder, a diva who only exists to be humiliated by Erik and replaced by Christine."

I was wrong.

I brushed some snow off of my clothes. It was strange stuff, not at all like ordinary snow. Ordinary snow would have melted from the warmth of my hands, leaving little wet marks on my dress. This snow simply fluttered away, as if it had never been there at all.

"What about the others?" I asked.

"MegSue will return to her story, and the other will return to their proper places. It will be as if none of this ever happened. I recommend that you don't tell them any of this. You already have enough obstacles in your way, you don't need your friends to turn on you as well." He looked at me sadly, "This is a great burden, I know, but I could not ask for your help under false pretences."

"I don't see why you need my help. You know the opera house better than anyone, just wait until ChristineSue and Erik are busy and steal the manuscript back." I said, trying to keep the tears from forming.

"No one can get into Erik's lair without his knowledge while he is holed up down there with his new Christine. In this world, Erik is far more powerful than I am. No, if anyone is to get into Erik's lair, they must do so with his permission, or we must see to it that he is far away from the lake or very much distracted before we dare to approach."

"Then I am the wrong person to talk to. Erik is no friend of mine."

"That may be so, but Erik is still a great musician and a great lover of music and you've forgotten one crucial detail in this new world."

"What is that?" I asked.

Leroux shrugged, then said matter-of-factly, "ChristineSue cannot sing."

"And I can." I finished.

"Even Erik himself admitted that your throat was golden and crystal. Sooner or later, Erik will want someone to sing his music. Sooner or later, he'll want to hear opera performed on our stage. This is why it is vital for you to leave here as quickly as you can. If you fall under Erik's power, then we lose our only hope of drawing him out. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said with a resignation that I did not feel, "I understand."

"And you will do what needs to be done?"

"If I don't, there won't be anything left of us at all, will there?" I said with a wry smile.

Leroux smiled back at me. Then he took my hand and pressed it to his lips. Apollo's Lyre gleamed in the moonlight as warm snow gently blanketed the rooftops. Once again, the sound of a tortured sigh could be heard on the chill wind as it rushed by. I thought to myself that if nothing else, I meant to enjoy whatever time I still had, because an adventure like this would probably never come again. I looked out at the starry night and felt strangely at peace.

From far below, a voice snapped me out of my reverie and pulled me back to Earth, "Carlotta! What in the Hell are you doing up here?" The Shade was charming as ever.


	19. Return to Earth

"I had better go," I told Leroux, looking down at the Shade. From this height, the Shade looked like something from a children's book, an ant dressed in scarves in a hat. However, I very much doubted that he had come here to recite pretty rhymes about flowers and the alphabet.

Leroux gave my hand a squeeze, "Be careful, Carlotta and trust no one. You cannot take anything for granted in this world."

After all that had happened already, I hardly needed the advice. However, I nodded my assent and did my best to look as serious as I felt. That's not easy to do when you're wearing fancy dress.

"I will seek out the Persian," Leroux continued. "He knows this novel almost as well as I do, and Erik will allow him full access to the opera house. I, alas, no longer have that much liberty."

With a wave of Leroux's free hand, Apollo's Lyre began to sink back towards terra firma. He still held onto my arm, but I was glad of it. Without something to help steady my balance, the descent back to earth would have been precarious. As it was, the rushing air rustled through my long skirts and made the train of my dress billow out behind me. It's too bad that I didn't have the luxury of enjoying the effect.

As we approached the rooftop, the Shade held out his arms to lift me down. I reached out for his arm, but was stopped when Leroux tightened his grip on my hand. I looked back and Leroux nodded at me. I wasn't at all sure what he meant by it, or why he didn't speak to the Shade. However, I didn't have time to give it any further thought, as soon as Leroux released my hand, the Shade pulled me into his arms and swung me down to the ground.

"Who was that?" the Shade asked archly. What did he think I was doing up there, it isn't as if I'm the romantic heroine around here.

"I think it was a ghost," I replied, feeling a little unsure of myself thanks to Leroux's warning.

"Indeed." The Shade snapped back as he pointed up at Apollo's Lyre. The white domino had vanished. There was nothing there but the golden statue and the falling snow. The Shade began to stalk around the base of the statue.

"What are you doing?" I asked, completely bewildered. I will never understand the Byzantine workings of the male mind. "We have to get out of here."

"I want to see if this is the kind of ghost who leaves footprints." The Shade replied.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked, wrapping my arms around my chest and shivering. I was, after all, wearing an evening gown, so my shoulders, arms and décolleté were bare. "We need to get out of here and I can explain on the way down. Besides," I added, "It's getting cold up here."

"Interesting that you've finally noticed that," the Shade sneered back at me from the opposite side of Apollo's Lyre, "In that dress, it's a wonder you haven't died from exposure already."

For a moment, I though we were going to have a screaming row right there and then, but as the Shade circled back around to where we had begun, he seemed to gotten over whatever was bothering him. "I think we had better leave by the stage door, rather than going back through the party. They must be finished with dinner by now, and everyone will be coming back down from the rotunda. It will be easier to slip away if we can avoid that crowd."

The Shade offered me his arm and I took it, grateful to have avoided an argument. Being silly and petty just didn't seem all that worthwhile. At first we walked, silently and briskly past the stones and greenish copper ornaments that decorated the rooftop and its façade. Once again, the wind moaned in the night, and without a word we stopped to listen. Was it the wind or was it Erik or was it some other ghost? It is amazing how much the glint of the starlight on a gilt stature can look like the glow of two blazing eyes. The Shade looked at me, and I looked at him and speech was entirely unnecessary. We ran.

We ran back into the opera house and down stairway after stairway, past the buttresses that supported the roof and then down through the maze of timber that supported the upper floors and the great façade. We hardly stopped for breath until we reached the eighth floor.

I opened my mouth to speak but the Shade stopped me with a movement of his hand. For a painfully long moment, there was silence and then the sound of a door slamming. Then another. And another. And they were getting closer and closer to us.

"It could be the door-shutters," I began.

"Or it could be someone else." The Shade finished. "We don't dare risk it." He turned and pulled me towards another passage, one that would lead us towards the boxes, rather than into the wings. We would have to slip though the crowd at the masked ball and out the front, right under Erik's nose most likely.

My hand wandered to the chain at my neck. Erik's ring was still safely tucked into my dress, but I wasn't entirely sure if or how he would honor his word. Erik might well have promised not to harm us, but it wasn't quite the same thing as promising that no harm would come to us. As long as he wasn't strangling us with his own two hands, he would most likely consider his promise fulfilled. Still, it was better than nothing. If we did run into Erik at the masquerade, we still had a chance of escaping unscathed.

All the same, I'd have felt a lot better if we could have slipped out through the stage door, where La Sorelli had left a horseshoe on the table outside of the doorkeeper's box, to guard us from the evil eye, even if it was less effective against phantoms and ghosts. When all you have are straws, it's comforting to clutch at them.


	20. Broken Chains

We ran past the boxes and emerged into the crowded foyer. I scanned the crowd for Raoul and MegSue, but it was impossible to find anyone within the rowdy mob. People were already emerging from the crush room and pushing their way onto the stairs. Bohemians and ballet girls mingled with the cream of society, seeming for all the world to be in competition to see who could mingle the loudest.

Half the crowd had come dressed in motley finery of every color imaginable. It was like watching some sort of fantastic gypsy display. The other half were dressed in dignified black and white, more like a harlequinade than a masquerade, as if they had all conferred on their disguises before they had come. However, the lot of them were united in the haze of having already drunk too much and in the anticipation of more debauchery to come. It was already midnight and the revels had only just begun.

We threaded our way through the crowd, through the hallway and down the marble grand staircase into the foyer. I clutched at the Shade's arm, fearing that we would be separated by the crowd, which seemed to exist in its own world, taking no notice of us and yet I felt a sense of menace, as if somehow they were all connected in a way that we couldn't quite understand. Dancers whirled across the floor in patterns that seemed both random and choreographed. The more we tried to avoid them, the closer they came. At last we spotted MegSue and Raoul, glued against the far wall and gesturing us toward them, as if they didn't dare attempt to meet us in the center of the fracas.

"Thank god!" said Raoul, "We were afraid we had lost you."

"We tried to look into box five on the grand tier, but it was locked," MegSue said, "Did you have any luck?"

"I think so." I told her, "There a manuscript of The Phantom of the Opera, and it's hidden somewhere in the house. If we can find it, we can restore the book's plot." I decided to leave out the other details for the time being, we could deal with the rest later. "We have to find a way to get through the crowd so that we can leave."

"We've already tried," Raoul said, "We didn't finish searching through the boxes until after the crowd started leaving the rotunda. Every time we tried to get near the door, the dancers would get in the way or someone would push us in the opposite direction. Is there a way to go through the backstage area?"

"We just came from there," explained the Shade, "Someone was shutting all the doors."

"Then we're exactly where we don't want to be," I said aloud what we were all thinking… and my words echoed across a suddenly, and inexplicably silent room.

As if hypnotized, the crowd stood still and silent. Then, they began to part, drifting out of the center of the room as if controlled by some unseen puppeteer. Masked faces turned like the heads of dolls, bright, beautiful, emotionless and unseeing. They were staring but they weren't looking. The path was a direct line from the top of the stairs to the place where, Raoul, MegSue, the Shade and I were huddled together against the wall. I stepped forward, raised my chin, and gazed defiantly at the top of the marble stairs. Two pairs of eyes stared coldly back at me.

ChristineSue stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in a frilly pink gown with full skirts in a style that had been out of date for the last five years. It was like something that a child would have designed for a character from a fairytale. She looked down at me with an expression that was at once brazen and proud, as if to make clear that she knew that she was the belle of the ball and the rest of us regulated to the status of wallflowers, by royal decree. She was hanging on the arm of her escort, a man resplendent in red velvet, a man, who although he bore no resemblance at all to Leroux's Erik, could hardly have been anyone else.

True to form, Erik had come dressed as Red Death, but this was not the skeletal figure that Leroux had imagined. Erik's suit was beautifully tailored to display every advantage of physique that he possessed. If ChristineSue had wanted to sparkle like Cinderella, she would have done better to choose an escort who didn't outshine her so blatantly or so easily. I confess that I was mesmerized in spite of myself. Erik didn't walk down the marble stairs, he somehow managed to both stalk and strut at the same time, in trousers just slim enough to hint at the muscles underneath while remaining just barely on the better side of obscene. His mask covered only half of his face, revealing a sculpted chin and sensual mouth. I remembered the Erik we had met at the lake, the Erik whose mask had clung to bones as if there was no flesh there at all and wondered if this could really be the same man.

I felt the Shade's hand on my shoulder, but I still felt as if I was rooted into place. I wondered why we didn't try to run, or better yet, why no one had thought to bring a gun. After all, we would have had a completely clear shot.

I recognized the faces of Richard and Montcharmin, standing transfixed at the bottom of the grand stairway with their mouths agape. I didn't realize that Erik had been watching us, until he broke his gaze to address the managers. "Gentlemen," said Erik with his unmistakably magnificent voice, "You look like a pair of codfish."

The managers, shut their mouths and looked at one another, utterly confused and obviously terrified.

"Make no mistake," Erik continued, "I am still here and I expect the show to go on. You will give the postponed gala performance tomorrow night. I have thoughtfully left a program in your office, and I am returning your star to you for the evening." He gestured to ChristineSue who smiled back, very pleased with herself indeed. I wondered if Leroux had been right about her not being able to sing. It certainly seemed as if Erik had plenty of faith in her talent.

"As for the ballet, it's been looking like an atrocious mess. I expect this to be remedied immediately," Erik continued. I noticed a flutter of movement on the far side of the room, as a flock of little dancers huddled together, hoping to find bravery in numbers. "The chorus has become lazy. They would do well to sing in tempo, although I suppose asking them to be on pitch is aiming too high." I didn't even have to look to know that the members of the chorus were clutching at their breasts and praying for strength. Then Erik turned and looked directly at me. "As for our lady of the golden and crystal throat…"

Erik walked towards me, slowly and deliberately. I wanted desperately to run, but something told me that it would have made no difference. Instead, I met Erik's gaze and glared back defiantly. I argued with myself that Erik probably wouldn't harm any of us, not in front of a crowd. It wasn't his style. All the same, I was afraid and hoped against hope that I wasn't going to collapse right there.

Erik continued to advance until we were almost toe to toe. With a single, fluid motion, he pulled both my mask and my veil from my head and dropped them to the floor in a gesture of supreme disdain or perhaps disgust. Several different expletives floated through my mind, but I fought back the urge to respond. I knew better than to provoke a madman. For a moment, it seemed like we were at an impasse, locked in a silent glare of suppressed rage. I wanted to scream, and I had a feeling that Erik wanted to kill. Then, as quick as a snake, Erik's hand flew to the chain around my neck.

Erik caught his ring and tore at it with such force that the chain snapped, I gasped as the chain bit into my neck. Even without looking, I knew that there would be an angry, red welt on my throat.

Erik spoke in a voice that positively dripped with pure, icy menace, "Consider the bargain between us at an end."


	21. The Trapdoor Lover

Suddenly, there was a flash of smoke and flames. I would have thought that Erik had vanished into thin air, had not a great big hole opened up in the floor- a hole that apparently no one had ever noticed before. It must have been the most solidly built trapdoor in the history of trapdoor construction because only minutes ago, a quarter of Paris had been standing on top of it. It would have been a masterstroke of the Trapdoor Lover if not for two problems. Firstly, the effect of Erik's sudden disappearance was ruined by the very obvious indication of how the trick had been arranged and secondly, there was the still masterful, yet very much perturbed voice of Erik which was heard saying, "Dammit! What kind of an idiot installs a trapdoor in the middle of the foyer?"

What kind, indeed, I thought as I looked up at ChristineSue, who was still resplendent in pink at the top of the grand stairway. However, I had other problems on my hands. Almost as soon as Erik had disappeared, the Shade was moving forward, intent on jumping down into the hole to go after the erstwhile Phantom. "Don't even think about it," I cried, clinging to the Shade for all I was worth, "You don't know what's down there!"

"I know exactly what's down there," the Shade replied, tried to wriggle free of my grasp, "Erik is down there and this time, it's going to be war between us."

"It's going to be nothing of the kind!" I insisted, "Erik nearly killed us down there already, and he's twice as crazy now as he was then… and don't you get any ideas either!" I added over my shoulder to Raoul, who had found a sword and looked just as determined to get himself killed as the Shade was. Luckily, the issue was settled when the trap door closed itself. I'm not precisely sure how it closed itself, but the hole in the floor was gone and if you hadn't already seen it, you'd never have know it was there. I made a mental note to avoid walking over that particular area of the foyer.

Now that Erik was gone, the crowd began to filter back towards the center of the room. I looked forlornly towards the doors, but we didn't have the slightest chance of getting past the dancers. Someone had figured out a way to trap us in the building by using extremely elaborate choreography. It involved fans.

"I suggest that you come with us before things get any more rowdy down here," said Firmin or Richard, and the other concluded, "You don't want to be here where they start doing fan kicks." Indeed, that was something I could go a lifetime without having to see. We followed the managers up the stairway and through the long hallway that led to the managers' foyer and their office.

After we were seated, the taller manager began, "I think we can safely assume that none of us will be leaving the opera house any time soon. Every time we try, something or someone will mysteriously prevent us from leaving."

"The people of Paris have turned into a mob of opera-mad zombies, and if we don't continue the opera season despite the fact that the city is under-siege and that the opera house is being terrorized by a lunatic in tight pants, they will probably riot and kill us all." The shorter manager finished.

"If nothing else, they'll make an awful mess in the foyer."

"And you try finding cleaning staff who'll work under these conditions," the shorter manager said with matter-of-fact resignation, "No, our choice is quite clear.

"Crystal clear."

"As clear as the crystals on the crystal chandelier, which surely won't be falling on anyone anytime soon."

"In other words, we do what Erik wants us to do," I said, hoping we might conclude the conversation with less banter, "You star his new Christine in the gala tomorrow while the rest of us figure out a way out this mess."

"Oh God, no," said the taller manager, Firmin or Richard or whoever he was, "Haven't you been paying attention? We're dealing with an angry mob of demented opera patrons here. If we put Erik's little girlfriend up on that stage, they'll pelt her to death with rancid tomatoes and then Erik will probably blow us all up or something equally dramatic."

"We were thinking," said the shorter manager, "That one dark-haired soprano is very much like another."

I did not like where this was going.

"Especially if she's wearing a big, sparkly dress and we use those really, incredibly, amazing bright stage lights that we only just installed."

"Oh yes, those new lights make everyone look washed out and hazy and besides, if you stare at them for too long, you go blind anyway."

"That's right. We'll just put on an extremely long ballet…"

"…That has sheep or goats or something in it so everyone will be sure to stare at the super-bright lights…"

"…and when everyone is half-blind with spots in their eyes…"

"…you come on and we say that you're Christine and no one is ever the wiser!"

This has to be the stupidest plan I have ever heard.

"And while Erik is busy thinking that Christine has miraculously learned how to sing, we sneak down to his lair and find the original manuscript of _The Phantom of the Opera_."

Et tu, Shade?

"And you don't think that Erik's new Christine will protest just a little?" I asked.

"We could give her a tiny bit of laudanum, just enough to make her sleep," suggested Raoul.

"Or we could smack her in the head with a plank. That sort of thing always works where I come from," said MegSue.

"I refuse to participate in a plan that is this mind-meltingly stupid." I said, with as much finality as I could muster.

"Do you have a better plan?" asked, well, everyone. They almost said it in unison.

"Look, we need both Erik and his Christine to be busy for the evening. So, what better way than having her sing the gala? She'll be onstage and he'll be in Box Five. The longer she sings, the better, because we'll be able to move more freely. Have her sing all of _Romeo and Juliette_ and all of _Faust_ if she wants to and if it's really that bad, then I can sing it from the wings or something so the audience will think that she's good."

"I think that could work out," said the taller manager, "But there's just one problem."

"Christine isn't going to be singing anything from Gounod. She's going to be singing this one, easy song. I have the music in my desk here. You'd better learn it by tomorrow." The shorter manager began shuffling through a pile of sheet music.

"Well," I said, "If she only knows this one song, we'd better make the orchestral interludes between verses really, really, really long."

"Done!" said one of the managers, I am having more and more trouble telling them apart, "In the meantime, you can all stay in the opera house dorms."

"There are dorms in the opera?" Raoul asked.

"Apparently." The shorter manager replied.

"Don't look at me," said the taller manager, "I'm as surprised about that as you are."

Let me just repeat. Most. Stupid. Plan. Ever.


	22. Box Five

The opera house dormitories proved to be a sort of tacked on orphanage at the back of the building, right next to the stables. It was a rickety wooden structure that looked considerably less comfortable than the stalls where the horses waited for the next production of Le Prophete. It was like something borrowed from another book- the sort of book where the heroine starts out as an unwanted boarding school pupil and ends up married to the richest man in the country. I had nothing against unloved schoolgirls aspiring to titles, but I was particularly thrilled at experiencing their sufferings first hand. Luckily for MegSue and myself, a private bedroom was available for us to share and despite the cheap windows and visible rafters, it was reasonably comfortable.

Both Raoul and the Shade offered to set up guard in the little wooden hallway that connected our warm room with the freezing cold outdoors. It was a gallant offer, but it didn't strike me as one that would do us much good at all. If Erik was planning on coming after us, he'd probably use some sort of secret passage on the inside of the building, rather than going outside and walking all the way around to the opposite end of the building. It also occurred to me that sleeping in a hallway that was open to all the elements was a good way for a person to end up frozen to death by morning. Since the dormitories were meant for nubile young women only, I suggested that the men might be more comfortable if they took some blankets into the stables and spent the night there.

The next morning, MegSue and I hunted around for decent clothes to wear. Apparently, no one around here actually owns any clothes. They just go hunting around and clothes turn up when they are needed. We found several lacy white bathrobes, a number of extremely low cut gowns, an impressive quantity of pink lingerie and, of course, tutus. In fact, the only clothes that fit MegSue at all were tutus. It seemed like, if one happened to be a ballerina, one was required to be a ballerina for every single waking moment of every single day, whether one liked it or not. However, given the numbers of ballerinas flitting about, it seemed like a good way for MegSue to fit in, eye-patch and all. We ran into several ballerinas with purple eyes, ballerinas with mismatched eyes and quite a few blind ballerinas, so a one-eyed ballerina probably wouldn't arouse much comment. After some effort, I was able to locate a dress that didn't make me feel as if I should be selling my wares on a street corner. I opted to skip the hoopskirt, which had apparent come back into fashion since ChristineSue's triumphant masked ball appearance, which left the puffs of fabric at the back of my skirt sagging sadly behind me.

The men were nowhere to be seen, so MegSue and I were on our own to find something to eat and a place to practice the music I would need to prepare by this evening. Luckily for us, the remains of the previous night's buffet had not been cleared from the rotunda. It was an embarrassment of food and an appalling waste, but at least there was plenty of bread, cheese and fruit that hadn't even been touched by the partygoers. We thought about saving some for Raoul and the Shade, but neither of our ensembles had been blessed with pockets. Besides, if the men went hungry, it was their own fault for not being around when we wanted them.

MegSue and I slipped back past the boxes on the grand tier, where Box Five stood curtained and empty. We looked at one another, sharing the same thought.

"It's probably locked," MegSue began.

"I should have asked Madame Giry for the key," I sighed. Why must hindsight be so clear? We should have known that we would end up back in the opera house, one can hardly end up anywhere else in a book called _The Phantom of the Opera_, regardless of the plot. "I suppose, if it's locked, it wouldn't actually hurt to try the door."

"No, I don't suppose it would hurt if we tried the door," MegSue agreed, "And it isn't as if Erik is going to be in there when there's no performance going on. If we were going to search in there for the manuscript, this would be a good time to do it."

"Yes, but we're not likely to get in there now when you and Raoul didn't have any luck with it last night."

"Well, yes, but Raoul isn't the kind of person who would think of trying to pick the lock, but I am." MegSue grinned, "I've heard of people picking locks with a hairpin, and there are plenty of those between us."

The lock on Box Five was a simple affair, no different from the locks on any of the other boxes. I think Erik must have relied primarily on fear and threats to keep people out, because the door was no hindrance at to two determined women with a hairpin. After a quick visit to the boxkeepers' corridor, MegSue and I were armed with candles and prepared to explore the forbidden box. We discovered the one thing we least expected- nothing at all.

Box Five was just like any other box. If you opened the curtains, there would have been no way to tell it from any of the others. There was simply nothing there. Madame Giry had kept it reasonably clean, but we could see that dust had settled on the gilt arms of Erik's chair and on the little shelf where a program was meant to be left.

"I wonder why Erik bothers with all nonsense about keeping Box Five empty, when it's obvious that he hasn't bothered to come up here in days."

"Well, there hasn't been a performance in a while," I suggested.

"There was that rehearsal where his ChristineSue sang, you'd think he'd have come up here to see that." MegSue pointed out.

"You're right, that is very strange. Our Christine was at that rehearsal and so was ChristineSue, you'd think he'd have been up here with bells on, but he wasn't. We heard his voice coming from beneath us, Madame Giry saw him backstage and then the backdrop was dumped onto me from above."

"So, Erik could be anywhere…"

"And everywhere," I concluded.

"We'd better get out of here," said MegSue.

It's a sad state of affairs when the only person talking sense is a girl in an eye-patch and a tutu.


	23. Change in the Scenery

**Author's Note- Just a quick thank you to everyone who has been reviewing The Mary Sue of the Opera. It's very much appreciated and I don't say so nearly often enough. Your feedback has really helped the story take shape for me. Please keep the comments coming, they mean a lot!**

MegSue and I made certain that we left no evidence of our presence in Box Five. Even if Erik wasn't using his box, it didn't seem wise to take any risks. We scurried through the grand tier and cut through the doorkeepers' corridor to reach the stage, where the carpenters and scene shifters were already preparing the sets for the evening's gala. As we passed through the wings on our way to the dressing rooms, Joseph Buquet waved us over to him.

Buquet looked like he hadn't slept since Christine's murder. His face was unshaven and his eyes were sunken. He attempted to put on a jovial expression, with limited success. "Ah, you must be here to see the new sets for _Il Giustificazione Trasparente_, the very new opera. They're in the first cellar, just follow me!"

We tried to look enthusiastic as we followed the head sceneshifter into the wings. The building had come to life in preparation for the gala. Every costume room was filled with seamstresses, rushing to complete the costumes needed for the new musical numbers that were planned. There would be no Gounod tonight, nor Massenet, nor Meyerbeer. The audience would be treated to "excerpts" from works that I had never heard of before, and to be quite frank, probably didn't actually exist. However, the evening would be splendid if the gilded cupids in the prop rooms and yards of gossamer silk in the costume rooms were any indication. From time to time, Buquet looked back at us with a desperate expression.

As we approached the stairway down to the first basement, Buquet gave a furtive glance to see if anyone was watching us, but the opera house had its own business to attend to, and took no notice of our progress. Seeing that we were unobserved, Buquet gestured for us to follow him into a disused corridor, which led us down a little stone stairway- no more than four steps- and into a small chapel. I guessed that it must be the one that the Shade and I had passed by earlier. There were no gaslights in the room, but they weren't needed because of the light from outside that streamed in through the stained glass window. There was a photograph of Gustav Daaé on a little altar by the far wall, but the candles had not been lit.

"No one ever comes here," Buquet explained, "So we can speak safely."

Clearly, Christine or ChristineSue had been here at some point, but since the candles on the altar were unlit and the picture of Daaé was collecting dust, I decided to take Buquet's word for it. I already knew that sounds made in the secret passage behind the wall could be heard within the room, and there was no sound other than our conversation.

"On the day of Christine Daaé's murder, I was working on the set from _Le Roi de Lahore_ in the third basement. As you know, this is the point in the novel where I have wandered into Erik's lair and I die in his torture chamber. Well, this time, I never found the torture chamber. In fact, I never found anything at all. I wandered around in the passages and then wandered back to the third cellar. I was just about to leave when I heard someone coming and knowing that it was likely to be Erik, I hid myself behind the farmhouse set nearby. I couldn't see very well, but someone came running through as quick as you please. I had foolishly left the hidden door ajar, and it was easy enough to see when it was open. The figure disappeared through the door. I thought I might try to follow it, but I lost it in the corridors and gave up. By the time I came back upstairs, Christine was dead and there was an angry mob wandering through the wings, looking for Raoul de Chagny."

"So either Erik was running away for some reason…" I began.

"…Or someone else was." MegSue finished.

"And that someone else had no fear of Erik." Joseph Buquet concluded, then he continued, "But that is nothing at all. Since then, I've gone back to the third cellar many times, and I've seen things- very strange things. Did you notice how many new ballet girls have been turning up around here?"

I confessed that I hadn't, but MegSue piped up that she had. While I had been racing around Perros and other interesting places, there had been a seemingly endless number of new ballet girls appearing at the opera house. The vast majority of them were either blessed with long golden hair or cascading chocolate curls, but a few turned up with luscious auburn locks, tresses the color of a raven's wing and hair in a number of other colors that had yet to exist in nature. Quite a few had eyes of different colors, several were blind, the majority were exceedingly pretty, a couple were disfigured on one side of their face, and most of them went around singing as loudly and as frequently as they possibly could and all of them were quite obviously out of their minds. In fact, it was a miracle that there had room for us in the opera house dormitory because the place should have been overflowing with attractive young women.

"There should be girls everywhere," MegSue said, "There were tons auditioning when I left and I met at least six or seven others who were out on the street waiting around to be kidnapped or disfigured. It's funny that we haven't run into any of them yet."

"You won't run into them. They're all down there with him!" Buquet gave an involuntary shudder. "He'll murder me if he finds out that I know. He brings them down to the door in the third cellar, and after that they don't come back."

"You mean Erik is killing them?" I asked.

Buquet shook his head, "No, they're all down there. I've seen them. They worship _him_ and do _his_ bidding. Be careful, even when Erik isn't down in his lair, his domain is well protected. I've been there!" Buquet grabbed my hands in a gesture of sheer desperation, "Carlotta, I've seen them!" He cried, and the sound of my name echoed in the stone walls.


	24. An Ingenious Plan

I wasn't quite prepared to embrace the image of Erik as the eater of souls, albeit, the souls of the two-dimensional and none too bright, however, the haunted look in Joseph Buquet's eyes was compelling. There was no doubt that whatever he had seen down there in the cellars of the opera had kept him from sleep for days, and driven him to risk his life by speaking of it aloud. I am not accustomed to embracing people that I barely know, but Buquet seemed to need some sort of assurance beyond whatever promises I might make about saving the day. I must have done something right because Buquet gave me a bear's squeeze and when he released me, there were tears in his eyes.

"We'll make this right," I promised. I was about to add that everything would be as it was before, then I remembered that for Joseph Buquet, that meant death by torture in Erik's lair. I bit back the words and silently wished that I could have some time alone to think everything through. When I met Leroux by Apollo's Lyre, I had thought that I knew the right thing to do. Now I wasn't so sure. I started to wonder if there wasn't another option. I promised myself that if we found one, we'd take Buquet with us.

"We should go," MegSue urged, "We're safer if we stay away from isolated places like this."

"You're right, and I still need to finish arranging the sets for tonight," Buquet agreed. As a precaution, we checked for observers before going our separate ways, but everyone had business of their own to attend to. In the midst of a crowd of people, MegSue and I were quite alone. We found an empty corner in the wings.

"What Joseph told us gives me an idea," MegSue confided, "My character is written just like all those girls that Erik is keeping in his lair. I should be able to infiltrate his lair without being detected!"

My first instinct was to talk her out of it, and I sincerely tried to do so, but MegSue's mind was made up. I reminded her that there was nothing in this story to prevent her from being killed, or perhaps even worse if Erik caught her. I emphasized the futility of the enterprise. I argued that the risk wasn't worth it. Finally, I decided to tell her the truth about our situation, if only because I couldn't live with the idea of her sacrificing herself under false pretences. I explained everything that Leroux had told me.

"You will go back to being a cardboard cut-out in your old story. It will be as if none of our character development ever happened." I concluded.

"Do you suppose we'll remember any of this?" asked MegSue, which was not at all the reply I expected.

"I don't know," I told her, "I guess we won't know until it's done."

"And everything is like it was? Raoul and Christine escape together, and live happily ever after, and I go back to my own story?"

"Yes, they do," I replied, there wasn't much else to say.

MegSue pondered, "The longer I stay here, the less I want to go back. I don't have a very good time in my own story. It's not just all the whining and angsting that I have to do. It's the spelling and the grammar that really get me down. Half the time, no one can tell who is supposed to be talking because of incorrect comma usage. You would not believe the things that can happen when an author leaves so many open-ended verb phrases, not to mention the spelling errors. I can't even get dressed properly because my corsets have all being synchronized."

"Synchronized?"

"I think the author meant to give me a cinched waist, but it's spelled "synch" so there you are. The inconvenience is really beyond imagining."

"I wonder if that's how Raoul ended up with an ingenious plane," I mused, "Instead of an ingenious plan." Luckily for us it had all worked out. I wondered what we would find in the manuscript, if we found the manuscript, had someone written in changes? In crayon?

"It could be a lot worse. There's a chapter in my story where Erik takes me to the zoo."

"What's so bad about that?"

"Have you ever heard that grammar joke about 'eats, shoots and leaves'?" MegSue wryly, "We were lucky to escape with our lives!"

We both dissolved into giggles.

Getting control of herself, MegSue continued, "I think my plan is a lot better than the managers' idiot plan. I won't stay down in the cellars for too long, or take too many risks. I'll just see what's going on and if I can figure out where the manuscript is, that's wonderful and if not we'll be no worse off than we are now. In the meantime, you can get ready for this gala thing and keep an eye out for a better plan. Just because Leroux is the author doesn't mean he knows everything, after all, this isn't even his story anymore. There might be something that he missed."

"And if we don't find a better option than reading the manuscript?"

"Well," said MegSue, "At least Raoul will be happy, and I guess that's something. He's so broken up over Christine that he can't even talk about her. As for the rest of us, I suppose we should enjoy ourselves while we can, just in case we don't exist tomorrow. Let's go find the dancers' dressing room. I think I should put on some ballet shoes."

I looked down at MegSue's feet. She was wearing her pirate boots from last night.

"You'd better lose the eye-patch as well," I added, "It doesn't seem suitable for a would-be romantic heroine."

MegSue sighed, "I suppose you're right. I just hate the way my face looks without it."

I wouldn't say that MegSue's eye was horrifying to look at, but it wasn't attractive either. The pupil and iris were clouded over and marked with blood, as though the blows had not only bruised her flesh but broken it apart somewhere on the inside. A pattern of scars marred the eyelid, and pulled the outside corner of the flesh into an odd angle. It was the sort of thing that was a shame if you were well-born and an inescapable curse if you were not. All the same, MegSue was still very pretty, and it was hard to imagine that men would not find her almost as attractive as before if not more so. In a sea of perfect faces, she was unique.

"How will you get into the cellars without being discovered?" I asked as we headed to the dancers' dressing room. "I think the scene shifters may be down in the third cellar, and we didn't ask Joseph how to open the door."

"I was thinking that I could use the mirror entrance in Christine's dressing room. I use it all the time in my story, and the room should be empty right now. Do you know about the mirror?"

Oh yes, indeed, far more than I'd like to.


	25. Mirror Image

The dancers' dressing room was packed with ballet rats, all preparing for the show despite the fact that there was a good seven hours before the curtain would go up. Some of them had dressed themselves up in an outfit that would have aroused comment in a Paris brothel much less the opera house. Even ballet rats don't display that much bare skin. The others were trying on gossamer tutus with garlands of flowers and yards of pink satin ribbons. None of them took any notice of me or MegSue. You would think that opera singers and deformed ballet girls in pirate boots turned up every single day, and in this world you'd probably be right.

ChristineSue's dressing room, or my dressing room, or whoever's dressing room it really was had been left open and unlocked. The gaslights had all been turned up and the room blazed with light, and sparkled. The light glinted off crystal bottles of scent and cosmetics on ChristineSue's dressing table, and off the jeweled necklaces, earrings and clips that had been laid out for her. A white dressing gown had been draped over her chair, like a waterfall of silk and lace that pooled onto the floor. At the opposite side of the room, a glorious white ballgown waited on a dressmaker's dummy, and was reflected in the great mirror that served as the portal to Erik's magical basement paradise. Flowers had already begun to arrive for the prima donna- almost all pink roses that spilled out of baskets and vases. I wondered if the theater was ever this romantic outside of the imaginations of mad geniuses and teenaged girls.

Unfortunately, we didn't have time to ogle the décor because the mirror was resolutely shut to us. We had the pleasure of watching our frustrated expressions reflected in the glass as we pressed, pushed, pulled and pounded but all to no avail. I imagined Erik standing on the other side, watching the spectacle and laughing himself sick.

"This is hopeless," I sighed, "So much for that plan."

"We can still go to the third cellar and try the entrance that Joseph Buquet found," MegSue insisted.

I nodded, secretly hoping that the third cellar would be crowded with a small army of sceneshifters and that would be the end of MegSue's daring scheme. I started to walk towards the door, but the sound of voices in the corridor stopped me. I looked back at MegSue, who pointed at the door. Someone was turning the handle.

"Behind the screen!" MegSue hissed, as I flew across the room. There was a screen behind the ballgown, set up so that Christine could have some privacy while she changed from one half-naked ensemble to another. I quickly slipped behind it, assuming that MegSue was right behind me.

She wasn't.

"Marguerite! What are you doing in here?" asked a woman's voice.

"Oh, I just had to see Christine's dressing room, now that she's the new star of the opera," I heard MegSue reply.

"Well, then why didn't you ask me? I'd have been happy to show you anytime you wanted to see it. Would you like me to show it to you now?"

"Oh yes! That would be so wonderful!!" MegSue squealed her old squeal. I tried to peek out from behind the dressing screen, but MegSue was making frantic gestures behind her back that I took to mean that I had better stay hidden.

"Isn't it a lovely dressing room?" The woman was talking again, "It's the loveliest dressing room in the opera house. Erik has selected it especially for Christine."

I heard the sound of footsteps; the woman must have been leading MegSue around the room. I discovered that if I laid my head on the ground, I could just barely glimpse them without being detected. The woman was dressed in stylish black silk and wore her hair elaborately plaited. I thought I had seen her somewhere before. She led MegSue to the dressing table.

"Have you seen Christine's robe? Look at the lace? This is what she'll wear when Erik brings her back to his home after tonight's performance. He'll sing to her and she will answer his call. Look at how delicate and fragile the fabric is!" She held out the robe to MegSue, who touched it gingerly.

"This is the perfume that Erik chose for Christine," the woman continued, taking up one of the crystal bottles from the table. When she lifted the stopper, the room filled with the scent of roses in bloom. The woman set the crystal bottle down, "And here are the brushes Erik sent for Christine's beautiful, chocolate brown hair. Erik insisted that she should have nothing but the very best."

The woman picked up the diamond necklace from the table and held it up so that it gleamed in the light, "Erik is a very powerful man. He can see to it that the woman he loves has nothing but the very best. He can give her everything- jewels, fame, anything her heart desires and all she must do in return is love him!"

MegSue nodded mutely.

"Christine will be a princess tonight," the woman cooed, as she led MegSue to the glimmering white ballgown, "Isn't her gown beautiful? Don't you wish you could wear a gown like this?" The woman's voice was nauseatingly sweet. Something was very very wrong.

MegSue sighed deeply, "If only Erik loved me instead of Christine. I'd never leave him for Raoul!"

I prayed that MegSue was acting. If she was, she was very very good at it.

"Have you seen the mirror?" The woman's voice purred.

I started to cry out "No!" but the sound of my voice was covered by MegSue near shrieking, "Oooooooh is this Erik's mirror?"

"Just look into the mirror, my dear," the woman said, her voice suddenly hard and mechanical.

I froze in place, unable to look away or make a sound. The mirror had begun to fade away. It didn't rotate or slide or move. MegSue's reflection became fainter and fainter until there was no reflection, only mist. The mirror had simply ceased to be, revealing the passage behind it, awash in golden light.

MegSue stood before it, as if hypnotized. I prayed that she was still pretending, but I couldn't be sure. She began to walk forward, slowly and stiffly, like an automated doll. The strange woman stood behind her, watching her with a triumphant expression. I could see shadows moving in the corridor. I could just make out a paid of figures in black, hooded robes, approaching MegSue, but I saw no more than that because the mirror had begun to take solid shape again. The blonde woman's reflection seemed to fade in just as MegSue's reflection had faded out. MegSue was trapped in Erik's domain and I hoped against hope that she really did know what she was doing, because I was feeling more and more out of my depth. I was prepared to deal with Erik the Conjuror, but Erik the Sorcerer was more than I could fathom.

The blonde woman began to turn in my direction, and I drew back and put a hand to my mouth to stifle the sound of my breathing. For a moment, I thought that I was lost, but the woman had only stopped to adjust Christine's dress. I listened to her footsteps as she crossed the room and the sound of the door closing as she left. I counted to twenty before I crawled out of my hiding place. I listened at the door for a moment, but the hall was silent and empty. I stepped outside, paused to regain my composure, and then ran away from there as fast as I could.


	26. Disaster Prepares to Happen

I ran into Raoul on my way to the singers' dressing room. He and the Shade had risen early in the hope of having some time alone on the stage to look for Erik's secret doors and traps. While MegSue and I were poking around Box Five, they had been in the third cellar, trying to figure out the secret door. I told Raoul all about our discoveries in Box Five and the conversation with Joseph Buquet. I wasn't quite sure how to approach the subject of MegSue's plan or her disappearance into the mirror. However, I was certain that it would be a lot easier to explain everything to Raoul than to the Shade. Raoul was less snippy.

"If Erik's has accomplices in the opera house cellars, we don't have any hope of getting into his domain," Raoul was saying.

"Well…yes," I replied, still trying to come up with the right words, "and no."

"What is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

It was the Shade. I silently cursed myself for hesitating. There was nothing for it but to tell them everything that had happened in ChristineSue's dressing room.

"You did _what_?!" The Shade grabbed me by the shoulders as if he intended to shake some sense into me. "Have you lost your mind? You could have been killed!" His grip tightened, and he stared piercingly into my eyes.

"Firstly, you can kindly stop talking to me as if I was a recalcitrant child," I replied, summoning up my very best expression of injured dignity, "Secondly, this was MegSue's idea and I did everything in my power to talk her out of it. Thirdly, MegSue is our best hope right now, and fourthly, you are hurting me."

The Shade's hands dropped from my shoulders as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

"She's right," said Raoul, "MegSue knows what she's doing, and I think we should trust her judgment. It's up to us to be ready to act when she gives us a signal."

"MegSue is in way over her head," the Shade snapped, and then looked pointedly at me, "and if you had been caught in the dressing room with her, the both of you would be sitting in Erik's torture chamber right now. Don't underestimate what he's capable of. As it is, we'll just have to hope that MegSue isn't caught and murdered before we can do anything about it."

"I, for one, hope that the lot of us aren't murdered before we can do anything about it," I replied, tartly, "because a man who can plan to blow up an entire quarter of Paris is perfectly capable of killing us right where we stand for no good reason at all."

"This isn't doing us any good," said Raoul, "What's done is done, and for the time being, the three of us are all in one piece, so we can stop worrying about what could have happened. I think that we need to come up with a contingency plan, just in case MegSue doesn't have any luck finding the manuscript. If worst comes to worst, we should be prepared for a full frontal assault on Erik's domain."

"Which would require a small army," said the Shade.

"Or a reasonably large angry mob," Raoul replied. "I hope that it won't come to that, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. I'm sure that we aren't the only characters that Erik and his followers have antagonized. I'm going to start talking to the scene-shifters and carpenters."

"But aren't they all out to get you?" I asked, thinking back to our earlier escape from the opera house.

"Actually, most of them seem to feel sorry for me," Raoul answered, "They think that I'm being vilified unfairly by some lunatic who can't spell. I'm hoping that we can use that to our advantage. After all, if someone can paint the hero of our story as some sort of perverted monster, imagine what they might do to the secondary characters."

I, for one, shuddered to even think of it. The only complaint Gaston Leroux ever made of me was that my Marguerite was a little too "splendidly material." I couldn't imagine what someone like ChristineSue would make of a supposed rival. Interestingly enough, although Leroux praised Christine Daaé's triumphant performance at the gala, he also had Jammes say that she sang "like a crock" and never makes any particular mention of the beauty of her voice. It would seem that Christine Daaé's genius was entirely the result of Erik's influence and none of her own making.

"I need to practice the music for tonight. Whatever disasters Erik has planned, I'd rather they didn't happen because I made some kind of mistake that reflects poorly on his beloved ChristineSue. Let him find some other excuse for blowing us all sky high," I sighed. I had been carrying the sheet music throughout the entire adventure with MegSue.

"I'll go with her, just in case there's anymore trouble with mysterious women or crazy ballet rats," the Shade told Raoul. I hate when men act like you aren't even there the moment anything interesting starts to happen. "No one around here knows me, so I can't be much help to you and Carlotta isn't safe anymore now that Erik is on the warpath."

"We'll all rendezvous in the wings before the performance begins," said Raoul to the Shade who nodded his agreement. I was tempted to say something, but I was prepared to wholeheartedly support any plan that would give me the best possible view of the ballet du barnyard that the managers had planned. It promised to be marvelous entertainment, much in the same way that a train wreck is unendingly fascinating to some people. You see the way the Rue Scribe backs up whenever someone gets run over by a carriage.

"Until then!" I chirped, with perhaps more good humor than was strictly appropriate to the situation. However, I knew that the Shade had just volunteered himself to stand around and listen to me practicing the same inane song for a considerable amount of time. It might well take me hours to get it prepared to my exacting standards, and there wasn't a thing he could do or say about it what with the stakes being as they were. Granted, it was petty and childish to want to get back some of my own, but after all that had happened, he had no business acting like I couldn't be trusted on my own. I flounced down the hall to the chorus room, while the Shade trailed behind look ever more rueful with every step.

We passed by ChristineSue's dressing room, which was all a flurry with activity. Even more flowers had arrived and they were spilling out the door. ChristineSue still had yet to arrive, but the mysterious blonde woman was there, supervising the deliveries of pink roses. I quickened my pace a little as we passed by the door. Even though I didn't think there was any danger of the woman taking me for a Mary Sue and trying to lure me through the mirror, there was something about her that made me deeply uncomfortable and I resolved to avoid her at all costs.

"That's the mysterious blonde woman, isn't it?" hissed the Shade, as soon as we were far enough past the dressing room door to be out of earshot.

"Yes," I hissed back. "Do you know who she is?"

"No, but whoever she is, she seems to have Erik's interests at heart."

"Or ChristineSue's," I pointed out.

"That depends," said the Shade, "Do you think that ChristineSue wants any other girls coming down to Erik's lair?"

We had reached the chorus room. It was empty but the grand piano stood uncovered and open. The room didn't look like it had been in use, but it was odd that the piano had been left like that. Pianos are delicate and can be damaged if they aren't cared for properly. You'd think that in an opera house, people would know to be more considerate of a valuable instrument like that.

"To be honest, I would have thought that Erik would have been reformed by ChristineSue's love by now, and the two of them would be living happily ever after in the opera house cellars making little genius babies with chocolate hair."

The Shade sat down at the piano and removed his gloves. He began to play roulades absentmindedly. I hadn't realized that he played at all, but I suppose that it wasn't out of the question for someone who spent all his time lurking around musicians to know something about music. He seemed to have lost all interest in me, and watched his hands as he spoke, "So, you think that someone like Erik can be reformed by love?"

"Well, Leroux seems to imply that he would be or could be and he does let Christine and Raoul go, but I'm not so sure that someone who had done such terrible things can ever be reformed by anything."

"But what about Erik's suffering? Wouldn't anyone who has lived a lifetime in the shadows with no kind word from anyone end up the same way?"

I thought about it for a moment before I answered. "No," I said at last, "No, I don't think they would. I think that the world is full of all kinds of suffering, but not every person who suffers becomes a murderer. Not every person who has been treated badly decides that they're free from any kind of accountability to anyone. Even with his ugly looks, Erik was able to charm the Persian into helping him and Christine would have gladly accepted him as her friend if he hadn't been so determined to manipulate her into being his lover. Erik was hurt by the world but his misery was entirely of his own making. That's why ChristineSue's love and his handsome looks haven't changed him one little bit."

"But Erik does let Christine and Raoul go at the end of Gaston Leroux's story. Erik loved Christine but I doubt that he has any real affection for ChristineSue. If there's any lesson in The Phantom of the Opera, it's that being loved by someone is not the same as loving someone and being loved by them in return." The Shade had begun playing a portion of Chopin's Fantasie-Impromptu as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Erik loves Erik," I said, "and I daresay he returns his own affections wholeheartedly."

The Shade continued playing Chopin without any indication of any intention of getting up and let me use the piano to practice. I thought about saying something but it didn't seem like the right thing to do. The Shade was looking more moody than ever. I waited for a pause in the music and said, "I didn't know that you could play so beautifully. Could you help me with the music for tonight?" I held out the sheet music.

The Shade didn't exactly jump up and down with enthusiasm, but he took the music and spread it out on the piano. "This song is almost childishly simple," he scoffed.

"I suppose so," I said, "but I think that it's meant to come across as more sincere than singing above the staff for hours in a language that no one understands, so that's what I'm going to aim for."

"So you won't be singing anything above the staff?" said the Shade, sounding like his usual sarcastic self, much to my relief.

"Well, not until the cadenza at the end, and then all bets are off."

And with that, we began to practice.


	27. The New Christine

Some hours later, I emerged from the singers' dressing room in my brand new chorus costume. It consisted of a red brocade skirt, decorated with at least seventeen pounds of fringe, a gold bodice, a gold tiara, gold armbands and gold beads. In other words, I looked like a gypsy who had raided a drapery shop. However, I didn't feel too badly, because the rest of the women's chorus was wearing the same silly get-up. We trooped to the wings in a body. It seems I wasn't the only who didn't want to wander the corridors alone.

The wings were already filled with ballet girls, trying to find room to warm-up amidst the chaos. They couldn't go back to the ballet room because they were encumbered by sheep and goats that they dragged around on leashes made from floral garlands. When I say 'dragged' I mean exactly that. Left to their own devices, the animals were perfectly content to stand right where they were, chewing on any gossamer skirts or floral decorations that they could find. Quite a few dancers had suspicious looking wet streaks, crumples and tears in their costumes. The Shade had positioned himself near the curtain, where his scarves and cloak would be safely out of the way of any hunger-crazed goats.

The dancers were all in flutter, whispering and pointing. Fearing the worst, and holding my skirts out of harm's way, I stopped one of the ballet rats to ask what was going on.

"Nothing's happening!" the dancer lamented, "This is a disaster!"

I wasn't aware that anything was supposed to happen, and said as much. The dancer looked at me as if I was quite out of my mind.

"Of course, something is supposed to happen. The chandelier is supposed to fall or a corpse drops onto the stage. Something always happens. We never ever dance this ballet. How could we? Have you ever tried to dance with a sheep?" The dancer's sheep looked up at me reproachfully and then settled into chewing on its garland leash.

I suggested that the ballet could leave the sheep on one side of the stage, where they could happily munch on the scenery while staying out of everyone's way.

"You just don't get it, do you?" The dancer heaved an exasperated sigh, "There is no ballet. We're supposed to wander onstage with the sheep while chaos ensues and then the curtain goes down and we all go home!"

While I had anticipated a disaster tonight, I hadn't planned on one of quite this sort. "Doesn't anyone have any clue about whatever it is we're supposed to perform tonight?"

The response was a resounding "No" from every single person in the wings, including ChristineSue who was looking both radiant and half dead with terror in her spectacular gown. This really was a disaster beyond anyone's imagination and for a moment, my less than charitable side wanted to leave them all to it. However, I had a feeling that Erik could come up with far worse things than broken chandeliers and dead bodies, so we would have to think fast.

"You do know ballet right? Some ballet? Any ballet?" I asked the dancers.

"We could do the one from _Le Prophète_," Little Jammes piped up, and several of the other ballet rats nodded, "but it won't match the music."

"At this point, I don't think anyone will care about that, as long as there's dancing and sheep. When they call places, everyone who knows the _Le Prophète_ steps go and stand in the front and everyone who doesn't take a sheep or a goat and stand in the back, looking graceful. Just keep doing the _Prophète_ steps over and over until the music stops. If anything goes wrong, Little Jammes is in charge. Just follow her lead."

Little Jammes marshaled the dancers like a petite general in satin slippers. As she led the ballet dancers onto the stage, I pulled ChristineSue aside.

"You must know the music," I told her, "This is your song. You just stand up there in the front and it will all be fine."

ChristineSue shook her chocolate curls, "I thought that I knew it, but when I tried to practice it today, everything was all wrong. I made the most awful mistakes. I thought I knew it, but I really don't at all. It just got worse and worse the harder I tried. Erik is going to be so disappointed in me!"

"But didn't you sing it earlier?"

ChristineSue's lip trembled and her large eyes began to shimmer with tears. She was, after all, still only a child. I sighed, deeply. A part of me wanted to send her out there to humiliate herself. After everything she'd done, she deserved it, but when I looked into her desperate face, my resolve crumbled. Maybe she really did love Erik and maybe she really was trying to make him happy. It couldn't be easy to live in the cellar with a deformed maniac. I rationalized that Erik would probably blow the opera house sky high if anything happened to his beloved new Christine, so I really ought to help her out. I promised myself that as soon as this was over, I would find the answer to Christine Daaé's murder, come Hell or high water.

"Alright," I told ChristineSue, "This is what we'll do…"

The ballet ended without incident. No one died and the chandelier remained stubbornly in place. Joseph Buquet gave me a little wave as he helped changed the scene for ChristineSue's big number. A gave ChristineSue the nod and she signaled to the conductor to begin.

I sang the first verse from the wings, so that it would sound faraway and tentative while ChristineSue emoted from the back of the stage where no one could see her very clearly. As the music swelled into the first lengthy orchestral interlude, ChristineSue swept down to the front of the stage, so that the audience could get a good look at how pretty her dress was while the I, and the rest of the chorus, gathered near the back of the stage. As the interlude ended ChristineSue delivered her next verse while emoting directly into the wings, so that the audience wouldn't see that the movements of her mouth didn't match my singing in the chorus. Then, for the final verse ChristineSue came to the center of the stage with the rest of us gathered into a group around her. I sang the final cadenza from directly behind ChristineSue, while she stood there with her mouth wide open, rather like a fish gasping for air. However, the ruse worked. The audience rose to their feet while ChristineSue smiled, sparkled and beamed. I kept an eye on the chandelier as we waited for the ovation to end, but not a crystal was tinkling out of place. Everything had gone smoothly but for some reason, I didn't feel at all relieved. I felt more nervous than ever.

Once the applause had died down, the chorus made a rush for the wings. It seems that I wasn't the only one feeling uncomfortable. Personally, I couldn't wait to change into my street clothes so that the evening would end already. Even though I had managed to save the show, I wasn't the one getting the bravos and applause and I couldn't help feeling a little sad about it all. I tried to catch the Shade's eye, but he was busy talking to Joseph Buquet and didn't see me as I passed by. I lagged behind the rest of the women's chorus as we headed down the corridor to the singer's dressing room.

"Carlotta?" called a voice from the entrance to the wings.

It was ChristineSue, who had only just left the stage. She had been kept behind by all the people waiting in the wings to congratulate her on her success. "Carlotta, I just wanted to say that you were perfect and…"

For a moment, we were both utterly silent, hardly daring to breathe. It sounded as though a faint voice had said, "Brava." We could almost hear it echoing somewhere faraway, "Brava, brava, brava…" Without thinking, I looked up, even though I knew that I would see nothing but the beams in the ceiling above us.

I looked back at ChristineSue, but something in her demeanor had changed. For a moment, I thought that we might be able to talk sense about everything, but the opportunity had faded along with the sound of that strange voice. ChristineSue looked me in the eye, "Now that I'm a star, I won't have to put up with anymore interference from you. Erik is all I need." With that, she turned on her heel and flounced down the hall. I didn't bother to watch her go.

Within a few minutes, I had changed back into my street dress. Most of the chorus were long gone. Those girls could move fast. I was about to step into the corridor, when I saw the strange blonde woman approaching with an armful of flowers. I quickly shut the door, pressing my ear to the wood in order to hear the sound of her footsteps as she passed. When I was quite sure that she was out of sight, I slowly opened the door. The corridor was empty, save for a red rose sitting on the floor just outside the singer's dressing room. The blonde woman must have dropped it. It seemed a shame to leave it to be trampled, so I picked it up and carried it with me to the wings.

I passed Joseph Buquet, who was supervising the removal of the night's set. "Well, I see that someone appreciated your efforts tonight," he said with a smile.

"Oh this?" I said, realizing that he was looking at the flower, "I don't think this was meant for me. You take it, for all the work you've done tonight." I broke off the top of the flower and tucked into Buquet's buttonhole. He actually blushed.

"What's all this?" said the Shade's voice behind us. The Shade had a gift for materializing out of thin air.

"I'm just saying goodnight," I explained. "I've had enough opera for one evening."

"You were brilliant," said the Shade, and I confess that it did make me feel surprisingly warmed to hear it, so much so that I was almost at a loss to respond.

"I'll see you in the morning," I said with a smile, although I didn't feel very cheerful as I headed back towards the opera house dormitories. The night promised to be drab, dull and lonely now that the gala was over.


	28. Don Juan Triumphs

The next morning, I slept in late. I had tossed and turned all night long. At first, I couldn't sleep for worrying about MegSue and what might happen to her down in Erik's domain. Then, it seemed like every time I started to drift off, I would be awakened by the sound of a voice singing beside my ear, but when I got up to look for the source of the sound, it would go silent. I began to think that I let my nerves get the better of me, to the point of near madness. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, I drifted off while holding my pillow to my ear and slept until noon or thereabouts.

I felt tired and out of sorts, so I bathed in leisurely manner and lingered over my toilette. The dress I had worn the day before had somehow disappeared from the foot of my bed, where I distinctly remembered leaving it carefully folded, so once again I had to search around for a dress that didn't leave me more exposed than a Moulin Rouge whore. I settled on a day dress in a dark blue print that was a little more revealing than I'd have liked for daywear, but wasn't altogether terrible-looking. I pinned up my hair, and a glance in the mirror satisfied me that I was presentable.

I had decided that I would find a way to get MegSue back out of Erik's lair, even if it meant an encounter with the mysterious woman. Nothing could be worth so much terrible risk and worry. I resolved to find Joseph Buquet immediately, so that he could take me to the third cellar entrance to Erik's domain. However, it was not to be, because Raoul was waiting for me in the corridor. "It's about time!" He said, "They've been waiting for you in the managers' office for the better part of an hour."

"Who has been waiting for me in the managers' office?" I asked, following Raoul along the corridor.

"I think you'd better come and see," said Raoul, "The Shade is up there now. He told me to wait down here until you came out. The managers were here earlier but the ballet girls all said you still asleep and the Shade told them not to wake you. He told me to bring you as soon as you were ready."

"What could the managers possibly want with me now?" I asked, thinking that the real question was what did Erik want now. The managers must have received a note.

"The Shade didn't tell me and I didn't want to ask. I think he up all night pacing around the corridor outside the opera dormitories and did not look at all happy," said Raoul, then adding, "Well, what I could see of him didn't look happy, anyway."

I shuddered to think. Even in the best of circumstances, the Shade could be a little prickly. If he'd been up all night skulking and scowling, he was probably setting the new standard for cranky. The scene in the managers' office was probably not particularly pleasant right about now.

I followed Raoul through the managers' lobby where the remnants of a sumptuous buffet lunch still simmered in silver dishes. The managers' lobby was frequently used for dinners and parties, so this was nothing out of the ordinary. The smell of food made me feel vaguely nauseated. I was still coming out of the morning's stupor and was in no mood for heavy soups and sauces.

Raoul gave a quick knock on the managers' door before opening it and ushering me inside. The two managers were seated behind their ornate mahogany desks, but they had the good grace to rise as they greeted me. The others were seated in gilt chairs. From the left to the right, I saw the Shade, looking every bit as moody as one might expect from someone who had been up all night brooding, two empty chairs, presumably for Raoul and myself, then ChristineSue, resplendent as ever in delicate pink silk and beside her, a man that at first I didn't recognize. The Shade rose and escorted me to a chair.

"Ah Carlotta, arriving fashionably late, I see. You'd think she was a diva already," the taller of the two managers said with a wink to ChristineSue and the unknown man.

"You missed lunch," the shorter manager added. Although our story had veered into entirely undiscovered territory, the managers had retained the same astute powers of observation.

"Oh dear, I'm terribly sorry. Will that be all?" I replied sweetly. I knew that I probably should be so cheeky, but the situation was utterly insulting. Firstly, I already was a diva and secondly, I was a diva who had saved the managers' reputations and, mostly likely, their chandelier. Beside me, the Shade was making a noise that sounded suspiciously like a repressed snicker, although it might have been a sneeze. It was hard to tell.

"Of course not, you silly girl," said the taller manager, as I struggled to keep my temper, "You're here to meet our new patron."

The man at ChristineSue's side rose. His clothes were impeccably tailored, as one would well expect. However, I would never have expected his hair, black as a raven's wing or his face, which was perhaps a perfect example of idealized manhood- both rugged and beautiful at the same time- and for a moment, I was spellbound, but not for long because I recognized that sensual mouth and that chiseled jaw.

"Hello, Erik," I said.

"Mademoiselle Carlotta," replied Erik with a bow.

"Oh, I see you've met Monsieur Erik Garnier before," said the shorter manager.

"We ran into one another at the masked ball," I replied smoothly, wondering what on earth Erik had in store for us now.

"Ah, fascinating," the taller manager took over, "You may not, however, be aware that Monsieur Garnier is the richest man in France and is now the new patron of the opera. He was in attendance last night for Christine's triumph."

Oh, I bet he was.

"Monsieur Garnier is also one of the finest composers in the world, as I'm sure you're aware," the shorter manager continued.

Oh I bet he is.

"And he has graciously commissioned the opera house to perform the premiere of his newest work, _Don Juan Triumphant_."

I daresay that the title of the opera was singularly appropriate given the circumstances.

"Our new star, Christine, will of course be singing the leading role," one or the other of the managers was talking, but my gaze had drifted to Erik, sitting smugly in his gilt chair. "Christine has told Monsieur Garnier what a help you were when the chorus was so ill-prepared last night."

Oh I'll bet she did.

"And so, we would like to promote you from chorus girl to the cover for Aminta." The managers concluded.

"You want me to cover the castrato hero's part in _Il re pastore_?" I asked.

"Er, no, of course not. We must have misspoken. The character's name is Amina," said the taller manager.

"I thought it was Zerlina," said the shorter manager.

The two managers looked at each other and shrugged, "Whatever. It's the leading female role in Don Juan Triumphant, the girl that Don Juan seduces. You'll be covering Christine."

"Well," I said, "I'm terribly grateful for the opportunity to be the understudy for the innocent victim, but I'm afraid I must decline."

I had had more than enough of Erik and ChristineSue and being bullied and manipulated by the pair of them. Why couldn't they leave me alone? They had everything they wanted. Erik was handsome and loved, ChristineSue was the star of the opera, living a life of pure luxury and romance and I was nobody. I was what I had always been, the diva that nobody wanted around- the person who stands in Christine's way and must be vilified and persecuted to make room for a new, younger, better star.

I stood up and swept out of the room, fast enough that no one could stop me before I slammed the door behind me. I stormed through the managers lobby but when I tried to open the door to the corridor, it was locked. I struggled with the lock to no avail, ready to cry or scream with frustration. Erik was no doubt having the time of his life at my expense and ChristineSue had made me feel like a fool for trying to be kind to her and to top it all off, the lunch dishes still had not been cleared and the smell was becoming ever more oppressive. My only option was to back into the managers' office and I was steeling myself to do so when I heard a sound.

Someone had foolishly forgotten to extinguish the little gas flame under one of the soup tureens. It was threatening to bubble over onto the table any moment. It was the last thing I needed. I decided that I could least move the tureen and prevent myself from being trapped with the appalling mess. The tureen was completely full; no one had touched it all during lunch. It looked heavy but I was about to try to lift it anyway when the soup bubbled and something rose to the surface of the liquid- something with blonde hair and a white eye.


	29. Erik's Prestige

**A/N- I have a feeling that I'm going to cross every genre imaginable with this story- except, perhaps for smut, but I might be able to work that in later on as well. So, I have no idea what category best suits the story, and almost feel unqualified to judge. Book? Movie? Mystery? Humor? Any thoughts would be appreciated. Also, at some point I'll need to come up with a new title…**

The sound of my scream brought everyone running. I sank to the floor, my face buried in my hands. The Shade was at my side almost immediately, but this time he didn't make any comment. He just wrapped his arms around me, which for some reason made me burst into uncontrollable sobs. I collapsed onto the Shade's shoulder and wept. I should never have let MegSue go through the mirror. If only I had stopped her!

The sound Erik's voice brought me to my senses, "Who is responsible for this tasteless prank?"

This was the Erik that I knew. His voice sliced through the air like a blade and his eyes blazed with angry fire. He was holding a severed head by its hair- a severed head that was made of plaster and was dripping soup all over the carpet. I felt like a fool. I should have realized that it couldn't be MegSue. The eyes were colored white, but there were no scars anywhere on the painted face. All the same, the message was as clear as the crystals on the great chandelier.

The managers nearly fell over themselves trying to see who could apologize first, "We're so very sorry, Monsieur Garnier! This will never happen again, Monsieur Garnier! Please accept our deepest apologies, Monsieur Garnier!"

"See that it doesn't," Erik snapped at the fawning managers, "I am holding the two of you responsible for finding the person behind this. That should keep the two of you busy, since you obviously aren't sufficiently competent to run an opera house. From now on, I shall take charge of matters."

The managers began backing away, all the while nodding and bowing, "Of course, Monsieur Garnier! We'll get right on it, Monsieur Garnier! Whatever you want, Monsier Garnier!"

Erik then turned to me, "Madamoiselle, you must be quite overwrought. It's no wonder that you are reluctant to accept an engagement to perform in my opera, after everything that had happened over these past two days. The poor planning and mismanagement of this company has been inexcusable." Erik extended his hand to help me up, and I took it without thinking. He was gazing directly into my eyes, and it somehow made me feel as if we were the only two people in the room, and it was not a comfortable feeling.

I stepped back, and felt the Shade's steadying arm at my waist, but Erik did not release my hand. If anything, his gaze became more direct and his grew icy with menace, "I promise that while you are singing in my opera, this thing will not happen."

I followed Erik's eyes to the plaster head which had been left behind on the table, still bleeding soup from its plaster neck. His grip on my hand tightened like a vice. I shrank away, wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me and Erik and that would be an end to this sordid mess.

Erik had caught MegSue, that much was obvious. He was offering to trade her safety for our compliance with his latest ridiculous scheme to make ChristineSue worship him all the more. Or was it his scheme at all? It all seemed so silly. Erik was a genius and he could easily train any soprano his heart desired to sing his music according to his own taste. He could cancel the performance or change the season if it suited his whim, so why would Erik care who was ChristineSue's understudy? I turned my attentions to ChristineSue, she hovered in the background, holding her delicate pink skirts out of the way of the mess on the carpet and staring at Erik as if no one else existed. Was this her doing?

"I await your answer, Carlotta," said Erik.

"Fine," I said in a small, tight voice, "I'll do it." I felt like a schoolgirl answering her teacher, the handsome, older teacher that every schoolgirl both loves and fears- loves because he is desirable and powerful and fears for the very same reasons. I hated him and yet I was desperately flattered by his interest in me and a small part of me wanted to do whatever he wanted, all for the sake of keeping his attention or being able to tell myself that I, of all people, had some ability to tame the monster. However, I wasn't a sixteen-year-old child like ChristineSue, who believed in her innocence that she could save the beast. I knew that neither my charm nor my singing voice would ever be enough to sate the devil in Erik. No matter what he promised, no matter how polite he seemed, I would never be able to breathe as long as Erik was around.

"Then it is all quite settled," said Erik, at last releasing my hand. "We can start rehearsals immediately."


	30. Scattered Petals

Erik strode out of the room, followed by ChristineSue, who gave me the strangest look. He had no trouble at all with the door, which opened easily at his touch. I stared after the two of them until they were out of earshot, took a deep breath, picked up the plaster head and hurled it at the wall while shrieking, "Maldición!" at the top of my lungs, followed by a stream of other curses in Spanish.

The Shade started to say something, but quickly shushed him. It's unwise to interrupt a diva in the middle of a full blown temper tantrum. I had no desire to go downstairs to sing the role of stupid victim in Erik's self-aggrandizing opera. If I sang anything at all, it would be the Queen of the Night's vengeance song or Elettra's aria where she goes quite mad with rage and frustration. If I could have torn my clothes to shreds and ripped out my hair, or better yet, someone else's, I would have. As it was, I found myself pacing around in circles and trying to come up with ever more inventive expletives while everyone else stood back in fear and awe. In short, it was not a good day.

"Ah, there you are," said a voice behind me, "We weren't sure where to find you, but the Daroga suggested that we follow the sound of Spanish invective and here we are."

Leroux and the Daroga had emerged from a secret entrance concealed by one of the panels in the wall. I wondered if that was how Erik had arranged his plaster prank. It would have been easy for someone to slip in while we were all in the managers' office and then to slip back out again the same way. The door could have been locked from the outside and then unlocked again after Erik made his presence known. If Erik had an army of followers, the trick would not have required magic or even skill.

"Erik has won," I informed them, "He's been one step ahead of us the entire time."

"I'm sure Erik thinks as much, and that's to our advantage," said Leroux, "The more confident he is, the easier it will be for us to thwart him."

"It won't be easy," warned Raoul, "He's got MegSue locked up somewhere down there and whole army of lovesick girls doing his bidding."

"Yes, we noticed this down in the cellars. He has a fake Madame Giry who poses as a ballet mistress to help lure them down into the cellars where Erik can control them."

"You mean the strange blonde woman that sent MegSue through the mirror?" I asked.

"Precisely," said Leroux. "She has taken Madame Giry's place and she is every bit as much in love with Erik as the others. She will do anything he tells her, even sending him other girls. However, she very rarely goes down to his lair and she should be easy to deal with."

"I'm not surprised. She's rather dated for Erik's current tastes," I sniffed, thinking about the teenaged ChristineSue.

"Age has little to do with it, anyone who is vulnerable and naïve would suit Erik's purposes. The young are easier prey because they haven't seen enough of life to recognize Erik for what he has become."

"No," interrupted the daroga, "They do not see him for what he always was. Erik doesn't see himself as part of the human race. He feels no responsibility to other people. He is brilliant and charming when he wants to get his way, but he does not have feelings the way that we do. The affliction of his face is a great tragedy, but the affliction of his soul is far worse. Another man, in a similar situation, could rise above his fate, but not our Erik."

"Then if not love, what does Erik want?" asked Raoul, "What can possibly appease him?"

"Erik wants attention and acclaim," Leroux said simply, "He wants to be lauded and applauded for his genius. He wants to feel that anyone whose opinion is worth having thinks that he is the most wonderful and worthy of all men. He wants to be the winner. His opera is titled _Don Juan Triumphant_, but it might as well be _Erik Triumphant_."

"In other words," I finished, "Erik has written himself into his opera as a Mary Sue!"

"Exactly so," said Leroux, "and that weakness will allow us to defeat him. His opera is buying us all time to prepare."

"Tell us what you need us to do," said Raoul, stepping forward.

"Erik can't harm your friend, MegSue, because he's using her to bargain for Carlotta appearing in his opera. It probably amuses Erik no end to have a great prima donna at his command. He won't want to miss a minute of the fun, and that will keep him out of his lair during the performance. The rehearsals will give Raoul time to gather up an army. On the night of the performance, Raoul will lead an angry mob down into the cellars to rescues MegSue and fight Erik's followers while the daroga and I search the house by the lake for the manuscript. Carlotta and the Shade, you will be responsible for keeping an eye on Erik and keeping him out of his lair for as long as possible."

"You leave us with the most dangerous part of the business," I had almost forgotten that the Shade was there at all, he had done such an admirable job of fading into the wall.

"I don't doubt that you can handle Erik, if it should come to that, and Carlotta has no choice. Erik will kill MegSue if she doesn't sing for him," Leroux said simply. Once again, I had the feeling that there was more in the exchange than I understood but there was no time to dwell on it. I had to go down to the chorus room to rehearse _Erik Sue Triumphant_. I left the men behind to continue making their plans.

Rehearsal was about to begin, and most of the singers were desperately trying to sight-read from Erik's painstakingly hand-copied scores. I would have thought that the work would have taken years, except that every score was written in a different hand. Erik had set his followers to work on the project. I thought about all those hopeful young women who came here looking for romance and ended up laboriously copying notes in a cold, dark cellar. I pitied them too much to hate them.

ChristineSue, however, had not been laboring over notes and ink. She sat at the front of the room with her score in her lap and Erik by her side, reveling in the role of star. She had wrapped her tiny hands around Erik's arm, and from time to time, she whispered in his ear and he smiled back at her. I felt twinges of jealousy flickering under my skin, and reminded myself that stardom at this price wasn't worth having. I glued my eyes to my score and did my best to read through the music.

I had always wondered what _Don Juan Triumphant_ might sound like. Would it be consonant and beautiful? Would it be dissonant and challenging? It was both. It was at once seductive and despairing. It was a grand tragedy painted as a great romance. There was dissonance, but it wasn't the mere thunder of clashing notes. It was an electric force that charged through the music, so that after the first reading, I felt exhausted even though I hadn't sung a note.

ChristineSue had been carefully coached by Erik, but even so, the strain showed through in her voice. She could barely make herself heard through the more lushly written parts of her role and struggled to make any sound at all on the highest notes. Her voice seemed to give out on her. All the same, her singing was met with a small ovation from the rest of the cast and much praise.

"Well, that was an excellent attempt for a first reading. I say 'attempt' because none of your music-reading skills are up to par and I am not looking forward to spoon-feeding you your roles. Christine is the only one who has any talent at all in this group," he reached down for ChristineSue's hand and brought it gently to his lips, "My dear, you have given me your soul and you're exhausted. You should rest. Carlotta can fill in your part for the rest of the rehearsal. Everyone else sounds like a crock, so her voice will blend right in."

The thought of MegSue chained up in a dungeon and waiting to be murdered was the only thing that kept me from rising out of my seat and stuffing _Don Juan Triumphant_ down Erik's throat one page at a time. I kept silent and remained in my place.

"As to the rest of the casting," Erik continued, "I'm afraid that our leading tenor simply isn't up to the title role in my opera. Since there is no time to find a replacement, I will have to sing the role myself."

The tenor got up and left the room, all the while trying to suppress a look of joy and relief. We all watched him go, feeling envious. He alone would be spared whatever horrors waited for us in the Phantom's opera.

"We will begin again from Don Juan's duet with—"

"Amina!" said someone.

"Zerlina!" said someone else.

"Whatever." I concluded, rising from my seat. I was deeply tempted to sing while slouched in my chair, and I could have easily done so because the music was not terribly difficult, but this didn't seem the time and place for that kind of grandstanding. I tried to look as I would make my best effort to do justice to Erik's music.

Erik began to sing. He began to sing with the voice that was enough to convince Christine that he was more angel than madman. The clear sound of his tone filled the room, and surrounded me. However, this was not the voice of any ordinary angel. This was a voice that was tinged with something primal and carnal. This was a voice that was not only warm but raw and primitive. Erik was not only singing music fit for the gods, he was singing pure sex, the like of which would have made Adonis himself weep for envy. The score sat unopened on a music stand while Erik poured out, not his soul, but everything else through the magnetic power of his voice the incredible energy of his music.

And all of this was being directed in my general location.

I focused on my score, reminding myself that I would have to sing the same tune in a moment, so it was best to try to retain as much of it as I could. I counted beats and thought about intervals and took a mental inventory of every sight singing lesson I had ever taken. I was afraid that if I looked up, I would end up flinging myself into Erik's arms and I was damned if I was going to give him the satisfaction. No matter how attractive or charming or brilliant he was, that didn't change the fact that he was keeping MegSue a prisoner.

Erik was two phrases away from finishing his solo and I was just looking up to prepare for my entrance when the door to the chorus room burst open and several ballet girls ran in screaming, "It's the ghost! The opera ghost has struck again! He has killed Joseph Buquet!"

We all rushed into the corridor, following the dancers towards the wings. Raoul and the Shade were already on the scene. The corpse of the Buquet had been dragged behind one of the heavy flats that made up the pastoral scene for the sheep ballet. He had been strangled, but the rope was nowhere to be found. It was a terrible sight. Buquet's sightless eyes bulged from his head, and his tongue protruded between purple lips.

I joined the Shade by Buquet's side. "So much for Erik's promise," I said quietly.

"Rigor mortis has already begun to subside. This must have been done last night, probably not too long after we left him."

I took a closer look at Buquet's body. Something wasn't quite right about it. Then I remember the rose I had placed in his buttonhole. At first I thought it was gone, but on closer examination, the stem was still there in his jacket.

But who had taken the petals?

**A/N: At some point before the next update, I am planning to change the title of this story to _The Conjuror's Masque_. It should still be at the same URL and I'll include a note in the story description as well. Comments and feedback are always welcome.**


	31. Twists and Turns

Joseph Buquet was buried with little comment and no fanfare. Rehearsals for Don Juan Triumphant continued the next day as if nothing had happened. ChristineSue sang the rehearsal and then next one and the one after. In fact, it appeared that my role in this was to be entirely a matter of form. I was never called up to move from my seat, much less to sing. I was fitted for a chorus costume but that was all. Apparently, my job was to stand at the back while ChristineSue and Erik played out their love affair onstage.

Although I can't say that I ever became used to Erik's music, it did become less shocking and affecting with many repetitions. ChristineSue struggled with her part, frequently missing notes and occasionally singing herself hoarse. I often wondered why she bothered with it. At first, I was certain that she thought she was wonderful in her role. Erik often told her so, and everyone applauded for her. Then, I started watching her more closely, and I could see the tension in her body and the anxiety and her limpid eyes. She didn't smile anymore. She grimaced, with dead eyes and a mouth frozen into place as if she'd been struck senseless. At the end of rehearsals, she'd disappear with Erik.

Raoul busied himself among the carpenters and sceneshifters. I'd see him from time to time when I passed by the property rooms. He had rolled up his sleeves and pitched in to help with the rushed preparations for Erik's masterpiece. The other men seemed to appreciate his willingness to help and seemed to be receptive to his cause. Joseph Buquet had been well-liked and was greatly missed by his confederates. Raoul was sowing the seeds of revolt in fertile soil.

I saw very little of the Shade. He seemed to have returned to his old ways of skulking around in the shadows. I wondered what he was up to, but I never got much chance to ask. I'd catch him out of the corner of my eye, slipping behind a curtain or disappearing through a door. I wanted to know if he had seen Leroux or the daroga and if there was news of MegSue, but there never seemed to be a chance to ask.

I had found a black dress among the clothes in the opera dormitories and I'd taken to wearing it daily, as a form of silent protest about MegSue, Christine Daaé, and Joseph Buquet. The neckline was as low, as low as an evening dress which normally would have bothered me, but I was well past caring. The Shade wasn't around to make comments about it and the rest of the world didn't care. If Erik was aware of my presence at rehearsals, he didn't show it and Raoul was always had work to do in the prop-rooms and set-shops. I was supposed to be keeping Erik busy, but that hardly seemed necessary. Erik was more than capable of entertaining himself above ground.

On the afternoon of the performance, I wandered through the corridors near the wings with a vague idea of practicing in the chorus room, although there didn't seem to be much point to it. I expected that I would do what I usually did- I'd play about ten bars of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and then I'd stare at the wall for an hour. I was about to go into the room when I ran smack into ChristineSue who was coming out and looking every bit as distracted as I was.

"Are you alright?" I asked her, although after everything she'd done, she didn't deserve that much from me.

"I'm just a little nervous," she said, "This is so important to Erik and I don't dare make any mistakes."

"I'm sure that he's thrilled with your performance," I told her, "Hasn't he said as much at every rehearsal? He said that you were the only person in the entire opera house who knew how to sing or could understand his music."

"You don't understand," said ChristineSue, pursing her rosy lips, "This is the moment when Erik will take his true place. This is his redemption. Everything must be exactly right or it will all be for nothing."

"No, I guess I don't understand," I said, "I thought your love had redeemed him."

"There's more than that," ChristineSue insisted, "Love is only part of it. Erik hasn't only been unloved, he's been denied by the world. He is a great genius- an artist, a composer, a singer, everything! How can his suffering be undone by one person's love? The world must make amends by recognizing him!"

"And then what happens?" I demanded, "What about us? What about MegSue?"

"I'm sorry about Meg," ChristineSue said, "She and I used to be friends, before her face got all messed up. She came into our domain trying to make trouble. She confronted me and said the most terrible things about how what I'd done was selfish and wrong, only I know it wasn't selfish because it's all for Erik and not for me at all." There were tears welling up in her eyes. "I didn't want anything bad to happen to her, honestly. I was thinking that we could make a bargain."

"What do you mean?"

"Erik is onstage from the very beginning of the opera, but I don't come in until act two. So, while he's out there singing, I'll go down to the lair to free Meg. Then we can sneak her out of the opera house before Erik is ever the wiser. In return, you stay in the wings during the performance in case I need help, and make sure that your friends don't do anything to spoil it all for me and Erik. After the show, Erik's suffering will all be undone and he won't care whether Meg has escaped."

"You'd do that?" I asked, completely astonished.

"It would make me feel a lot better, actually. Do we have a bargain?"

"Yes." I offered my hand for ChristineSue to shake, which she did.

"Meet me in my dressing room after the show begins," ChristineSue said as she walked away.

For a moment, I stood there, lost in my own thoughts. I was startled out of my reverie by the voice of the Shade.

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

I stared back, dumbly.

"You can't trust, ChristineSue. For all we know, she's behind all of this." The Shade insisted.

I turned on my heel, and stalked into the chorus room, the Shade right behind me, "That's what I thought at first, but now I'm not so sure. She was scared to death at the gala and she's miserable now. If she's the one controlling the story, shouldn't she be more confident? Can't she just write herself a perfect performance?" I paced around the room, followed step for step by the Shade.

"True, but every time Erik does something she doesn't like, something goes hideously wrong. Do you think that Erik intended to drop into a hole during the masked ball, or to be interrupted during his big moment at the Don Juan read-through? That's not to mention poor Christine Daaé, the love of his life lying dead as a doornail on the stage. Christine Daaé had Erik's protection and she still ended up murdered and desecrated before anyone could do anything about it. If she could do that to Christine, what do you think she's planning to do to you?"

I turned and marched towards the door, "Given that you've made yourself so very scarce lately, I don't see how that could be of any interest to you now."

The Shade didn't say a single word. He simply took me by the arm, spun me around and kissed me full on the mouth. For a fleeting moment, I wondered how on earth he'd gotten all those scarves out of the way, and then I was beyond caring.


	32. Lured Away

"What is the meaning of this?"

The sound of a woman's sharply raised voice snapped me back to attention. My first instinct was to jump clean out of my skin, and the second was to make certain that the skin in question was still properly covered. The interrupted kiss had been somewhat prolonged and rather involved. GirySue had walked right into the room without either of us noticing and who knows for how long she had been standing there, looking forbidding. She was dressed all in black silk, with her hair dressed to perfection on top of her head. There was something about her that made me think of ravens and winter- predatory and chill.

"You're quite the little Delilah, aren't you, Mademoiselle?" GirySue said in a voice dripping with ice, "I hope for your sake that Erik never hears of this."

I was sorely tempted to reply that Erik wouldn't hear of it unless she told him herself and frankly, it was none of Erik's affair.

GirySue continued, her dead eyes boring into me, "Erik's heart will be broken, yet again. You're all the same, you girls. He gives you everything and you repay him with faithlessness."

I looked back at the Shade, who had re-arranged his scarves and was looking somewhat rumpled, but otherwise much the same as usual. I still hadn't had a good look at his face-when you're that close, it's hard to see anything very clearly. He still had an arm encircled protectively around my waist and I was glad of it. I moved a little closer, very much grateful that I wasn't alone, and hissed "What is Erik playing at?"

"It's time for you get dressed for the opera. You don't want to be late," the woman said with that strange, inhuman sweetness that she had used when she lured MegSue away. It was more frightening than if she had raged or screamed. "Come with me."

"No," said the Shade, "She'll do nothing of the kind."

"You wish to make an enemy of Erik, monsieur?" purred GirySue.

The Shade replied with perfect calm, "Erik should be concerned about making an enemy of me."

The Shade stepped forward and GirySue, to my amazement, backed up. She was afraid of him, I could see it flicked and twitch around her eyes. I thought back to our journey through Erik's lair, had Erik really been trying to tease us when he upended us into the water, or was it failed attempt to kill the Shade? After all, the Shade wanders through the opera house without fear of Erik, could that be because Erik feared him? The Shade advanced on her, and within a few purposeful strides was close enough to snap her neck and he looked like he just might be considering that.

GirySue was aware that she had stepped over the line, "I am sure Erik will do what he thinks best, monsieur," the honey had evaporated from her voice and was replaced by a distinct tremor, "Just as I must do what I think best for Erik. For instance, he's caught a little spy in his lair and what's to become of her if I'm not there to see that she's fed. Erik is a busy man, and he might forget her for a few days or a few months. What a terrible thing for her to starve to death in the dark."

The Shade might not have a weakness but GirySue obviously knew mine, "Let her go," I pleaded, "This won't help us."

The Shade looked back at me, with the old look in his eyes, the one that seemed to be asking if I were completely obtuse. GirySue seized the moment and ran for the door, but she gave us one parting shot from the door, "She is right, monsieur. There is nothing you can do to help." With that she slipped away and was gone.

"MegSue is not going to starve to death within the two hours between now and the curtain for _Don Juan Triumphant_, and now, thanks to you, that harridan is loose and able to cause more trouble," the Shade snapped.

"Erik is psychotic, not stupid and he isn't going to go prancing around the stage for us while we pummel his little helpers into tiny little pieces," I pointed out, "Nor will he let her kill anyone in the meantime because he's having too much fun holding it over our heads."

"So what about the damsel in distress bit that you pulled a moment ago?"

"Any decent opera singer knows how to act."

The Shade responded by pulling me back into his arms, and things would have gotten very interesting indeed if not for the faint sound of a muffled voice and knocking coming from outside in the corridor. My upturned head quickly pivoted in the direction of the sound and the moment, what there was of it, was lost. It was unfortunate too, because I still hadn't seen the Shade's face and now it was becoming more and more likely that I never ever would.

"It sounds like it's coming from the property room across the corridor," said the Shade.

The Shade was right, someone had been locked in the property room and was frantically pounding on the door, and crying. The door had been locked from the outside with a key, but whoever had done it was long gone. The Shade rushed off to find the property master, who would have a key to the lock. I knelt down by the keyhole and hoped that whoever was inside could hear me through the tiny opening. "It's all right. Someone's gone to get the key. We'll have the door open in just a minute."

"Carlotta? Is that you?" said the voice of ChristineSue.

"Yes, it's me," I answered, at a loss to figure out who would risk pulling a prank like this on Erik's girlfriend, "How did you get in there?"

"I was walking down the corridor and I heard the sound of a music box playing. I thought it might be Erik's. He has one, you know. It's very important to him."

"Of course," I said although I had no idea what she was talking about.

"I came in to look and the door slammed behind me. I was starting to get really scared that it was Joseph Buquet or the rat catcher trying to kidnap me!"

I thought about pointing out that Joseph Buquet was dead, because she had probably killed him and the fact had just slipped her mind.

"Luckily, Erik would be there to rescue me. He always comes to rescue me." ChristineSue continued dreamily, "I can almost hear his voice singing to me now."

In fact, she couldn't almost hear Erik singing, she was hearing Erik singing. I could hear it too. It was very faint and quiet, but it was Erik nonetheless.

"Just stay here by the door, Christine," we'll have the key in just a minute, I tried to sooth her.

"Erik is coming for me," ChristineSue sounded dizzy or drugged, "He's just behind that wall."

"I think it would be better to stay by the door," I insisted, "You have to be up here for the opera. We'll have you out in just a minute."

"Look!" said Christine, "There's a passage in the wall! I didn't see that before."

"Stay away from the wall!" I yelled back at her, but she was past listening to me.

"Erik is calling me! I'm coming, Erik!"

I could hear ChristineSue moving, getting further away. "Please Christine, don't go back down there. It isn't safe!"

Abruptly, the sound of Erik's voice stopped, and an icy hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up, and the cold, steel eyes of GirySue stared down at me. "I'm sorry to startle you, mademoiselle, but it's time you started dressing for the performance."

"I'm waiting for someone," I said, not feeling nearly as brave without the Shade with me, "We need to unlock the door."

"This door?" GirySue said smoothly, "There's nothing behind this door. See for yourself." She drew a large iron key from her pocket and unlocked the door. It swung open revealing an empty room. There was no sign of ChristineSue or the music box she claimed to have heard playing. "And now, I must insist that you come with me to your dressing room to get ready for the performance." I didn't see the knife that she held to my ribs, but I felt it cut through the fabric of my dress, gently grazing my skin.


	33. Murder Unmasked

GirySue escorted me to ChristineSue's dressing room. All of her things were still there, laid out for her, although I had a feeling that she wasn't coming back for them anytime soon. Her Don Juan Triumphant costume, a miracle of pink silk and black lace, was ready for her, and her white lace robe had been carefully draped over her little chair. The room was heavy and warm with the scent of roses, which covered every available surface.

GirySue tried to push me inside, and I tried to resist. "This isn't my dressing room!" I insisted, "My costume is in the singer's dressing room." I tried to wriggle away from her but her grip was like iron.

"What are you talking about?" GirySue asked, although when I say 'asked' I only mean that she began her sentence with an interrogative phrase. She spoke in a monotone. "This is your dressing room. This has always been your dressing room. Don't you remember?"

Technically, she was right. This had been my dressing room, long ago when I was the unwanted prima donna and Christine was the beloved new Marguerite- or about to be. However, a lot had changed since then. A lot had changed since I had gone through the mirror, hoping to find my way out of this mess only to end up far more deeply involved than I had ever planned to be.

"These are Christine's things. This is Christine's room now. This is Christine's opera. My things are in the singers' dressing room, along with all the other anonymous secondary characters." I stalled for time. The last place I wanted to be was in a dressing room with a great big magic mirror in it, where Erik could pop out and kill me at any minute. For all I knew, that was the plan. Or maybe I'd get up on stage and he'd play his little "co-ack" games, or the chandelier would fall or more dead bodies would pop up in the wings. Erik and I were not friends and he wasn't planning on doing me any favors.

"Christine? Christine has been dead for a long time. There's no Christine here. This is your dressing room and that is your costume and I suggest that you get ready for the performance tonight or Erik will be very upset. I can't answer for what might happen if Erik if upset!" Her face twisted itself into a mask of rage.

With that, GirySue gave me a hard shove that sent me tumbling into the room, and slammed the door behind me. I didn't waste a minute scrambling to my feet, but I was too late. I heard the click of the lock. I tried the door anyway, but it was no use. I knocked and yelled, but either no one could hear me or no one cared. In desperation, I sat down on the floor and kicked at the door, but it was hopeless. I had no choice but to submit to whatever Erik had planned for me, I just hoped it didn't involve me starving to death or dying from boredom. I'd rather be dead from public humiliation than the other two, and it was to be a speedy date with the Punjab Lasso, so much the better.

I picked up ChristineSue's beautiful costume and tuned it in my hands. No expense had been spared and no detail had been ignored. Every flounce was trimmed with lace and little embroidered roses, probably to match Christine's favorite perfume. She seemed to have a had a thing about roses. I wondered if that was why she had torn all the petals from the bloom in Buquet's lapel. Maybe ChristineSue thought that he had stolen one of her flowers, although she had so many, she could hardly have missed one or even a dozen.

I struggled out of my dress and attempted to put on ChristineSue's costume. It fastened in the back with laces, which presented any number of difficulties for me. Clearly, this was a dress that was meant for someone who had access to a maid. I have been wearing gowns that buttoned in the front, all the better to dress myself in the dingy little dormitories. The surprise was that the dress fitted me. ChristineSue was taller than I by several inches and still had the boyish figure of an adolescent. I considered myself slender, but not boyish or willowy by any means. If the bodice had been fitted to ChristineSue then I should not have had the slightest hope wearing it and yet here it was. I gave my hair a cursory touch with the hairbrush and sat down to think, after all, I probably had quite a lot of time on my hands.

My mind drifted back to the very first mystery, who had murdered Christine? I thought about poor Christine's body lying there on the stage. She would have looked like sleeping beauty if not for the marks around her neck and the dagger in her chest. I tried to picture the scene in my mind. Where had everyone been standing? Who was there at the time? Then something stopped me. It was one of those tiny details that you don't even think about in the heat of the moment. If Christine had been stabbed, why was there no blood? She must have already been dead when the dagger was plunged into her heart. There weren't any bruises either. Someone had been trying to confuse us with too many clues, so that we wouldn't focus our attention on the actual murder weapon- the Punjab Lasso. Only one person could have done it, and I had been too blind to see it.

Erik loved Christine Daaé, didn't he? Wasn't that the point of The Phantom of the Opera? Erik was supposed to be so touched by Christine's love and self-sacrifice that he rotten little heart grows several sizes and he lets her go. However, this wasn't The Phantom of the Opera. Erik hadn't given Christine a chance to show him kindness. The Erik who murdered her was the same Erik who tortured Joseph Buquet to death and plotted to blow up a quarter of the city just to make damned certain that Christine Daaé would never be happy with another man. There had been no kiss on the forehead and no awakening of conscience. Erik had somehow figured out that no matter what he did, Christine Daaé loved Raoul and always would. It was integral to her character and could not be changed by any sequence of events that Erik might dream up. So, Erik murdered her to see to it that Raoul would never have her. The question was, how had Erik figured everything out?

ChristineSue must have read _The Phantom of the Opera_. She was smart enough to find a way into our plot and she was clever enough to have figured out that our Christine would never love Erik. That wouldn't matter to ChristineSue, because she wasn't our Christine. ChristineSue came from some other world where everyone wants Erik and Raoul is considered the enemy- the impediment who stands between Christine and her dark lover. Joseph Buquet hadn't run into Erik in the third basement because Erik had been busy elsewhere with ChristineSue. Buquet had wandered around unhindered but that was hardly a problem for Erik anymore. Erik and ChristineSue had the manuscript. By the time the rest of us were arriving at the opera house, their plans were already made. ChristineSue would distract our attention for a moment and a moment was all Erik had needed. He slaughtered his beloved, scuffed up her corpse and slipped away. He was probably already hiding in the wings when we all heard his voice claiming to be able to hear us from his lair- something which couldn't possibly be true, because the Shade and I had been down there and there hadn't been any sound whatsoever from above.

The note blaming Raoul must have been written by ChristineSue. It wasn't in Erik's handwriting and Erik did know how to spell 'Raoul' despite wishing the poor boy had never existed. Erik could hardly resist placing the blame on his chosen enemy and in ChristineSue's eyes, Raoul was another problem to be dealt with. If she was to be the new Christine, then she should logically choose Raoul and that was the last thing she wanted. Vilifying Raoul gave her an excuse for choosing Erik.

So the mob chased Raoul off and I ended up wandering into Erik's domain. Erik had been waiting underwater, breathing and singing through his reed- an old trick that the Persian knew well. He couldn't have seen us clearly; he would only have seen the bottom of the boat. He couldn't have heard us talking because his head was underwater, and I knew from experience that when you're underwater, you hear almost nothing but water. Only the loudest noises from above will reach you. So, who was Erik expecting? He must have been aware of the mirror in my dressing room, or had that been a mistake? Erik would have known to keep the corridors dark, so that his tricks would not be revealed, but ChristineSue might not have known. She had romanticized Erik, so why not romanticize his tricks as well? She imagined his world under the opera house as a magical, golden fairyland and with the manuscript in her control; she'd been able to create it. The fact that it all defied logic, looked ridiculous and simply didn't work wasn't something she had bothered to consider.

No, Erik had expected to meet with the Shade, and he had intended to kill him. Erik must have already imagined himself all-powerful, but he still wasn't all powerful enough to do the deed. Erik had quite the knack for thinking on his feet and he must have been quite beside himself with amusement when he sent us off to find Christine Daaé's murderer, all the while knowing perfectly well who it was. It was Erik's kind of joke. It also conveniently removed the Shade from the opera house, so that Erik could play his games with ChristineSue without any fear of being thwarted.

Erik had come to Perros to have another go at murdering the Shade, only to fail for the second time. I wonder what he thought when ChristineSue defended him. Was he delighted or infuriated?

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the click of the lock. GirySue stepped into the room and looked me over. "Your dress isn't laced properly, and your hair is all wrong," she said at last, "allow me."

I didn't see any point in arguing. I needed to conserve my energy for the confrontation with Christine Daaé's murderer.


	34. Into the Fire

I was beautiful, but then again, a dead pig would have been beautiful if someone had gone to that much trouble over its hair and dress. It was unfortunate that no one was going to get the chance to appreciate just how nice I looked, since I was more than likely about be squashed flat by a falling chandelier. As much as I wanted to avoid going anywhere near the mirror, I couldn't resist giving myself one last look before I followed GirySue to the wings. The mirror reflected only me, radiant in pink silk, with my hair loose around my shoulders and fresh roses pinned behind my ear. It was unfortunate that a moment that should have been so perfect was tinged with darkness and blood. On the whole, I'd rather claw my way to success on my own than have it purchased for me at such a high price. Still, that kind of wisdom comes of experience, and neither of the two Christines had understood the bargain they had made with the angel of music.

GirySue followed me out of the dressing room, but she kept a respectful distance and the knife did not reappear. I was dying to ask her what Erik had promised her in return for her service. Had he promised to love her as well? Did he offer his friendship or his respect? Even I, who of all people should have known better, felt a kind of giddy anticipation at the thought of singing with Erik. My own weakness was more frightening than any of the things that Erik had done. It would have been so easy to fall at his feet the way everyone else did, thrilling every time he deigned to be polite to me. MegSue had found her strength in the injury to her face; in her mind, Erik would be forever associated with fear and pain. I found my strength in the hundreds of slights I had endured at Erik's hands, and I counted them off in my mind every time I secretly lusted for Erik's approval. I was not Erik's choice and never would be. I was not Christine.

When we reached the wings, GirySue fell back, hovering near the door like a carrion crow in her black silk skirts. She wasn't going to let me escape, but she didn't seem too concerned that I would back away from the stage at the last possible second. I must admit that she had read me correctly. I was tired of waiting for something to happen and determined to force a crisis if only to have done with the tiresome business.

The wings were empty, save for the scene-shifters, who went about their business in silence. The second act had already begun. Erik was onstage, dressing in the tightest pants I had yet seen and a soft, ruffled shirt that was open at the collar. A red cummerbund was his only concession to the supposedly Spanish setting of his opera. In this scene, he has decided to change places with his servant, so that he can escape from a persistent former conquest while wooing his latest would-be conquest. In other words, Erik borrowed large chunks of his plot directly from Da Ponte's famous libretto for _Don Giovanni_, however this time the great lover would not be sucked down to Hell- which is unfortunate because I couldn't think of a person who deserved that fate more than Erik. Erik, as Don Juan, covered his sculpted flesh with a heavy, hooded black cloak and orders his servant to put on a similar cloak. The servant hides in the alcove, so that his victim will think they are alone, then at the crucial moment, the servant appears to give Don Juan an excuse for dragging off his victim to "hide" in a more secluded location. What precisely Don Juan is hiding, I will leave to your imagination.

At this point, I was to enter and sing several lines about being innocent and sweet and dreaming of love. All too late, I realized that I hadn't really expected to walk on stage. Somewhere, buried at the back of my mind, was the hope that someone would step in and rescue me. I hovered in the wings, while the conductor waited with his baton raised for the sound of my voice, so that we could get on with the opera. Without looking, I knew that GirySue was fingering the knife in her pocket and preparing to drive me out onto the stage by force, if necessary. I looked around, not really wanting to admit that I was looking for someone specific and that said specific person was, once again, nowhere to be seen. Men are never around when you need them. I closed my eyes and made a speedy, silent prayer before taking a deep breath, and starting to sing.

The set for the opera had two levels, in order to suggest and open outdoor courtyard at Don Juan's palatial Spanish villa. The downstage area was left empty, to give Don Juan more space for strutting and seducing as close to the audience as possible. The center stage area was occupied by a large table and two benches, which is supposed to suggest that a party has been going on or is about to go on, something like that. The upstage area, which means the back of the stage, was occupied by the upper level of the set. There were staircases on either side, connected by a balcony that stretched all the way across the width of the stage. The center area had two entrances, an open archway and a curtained alcove. Both could be reached from the wings by slipping behind the stairs. The stairs blocked most of the wings, leaving a single upstage entrance on either side. The front edge of the stage was blocked not only by the orchestra pit, but by the gaslights along the edge. In other words, if I wanted to leave the stage, most of my avenues for exit could be easily blocked by Erik from the stage or by GirySue in the wings.

I decided to stay in the clear, downstage area as much as I could. It would give me more room to maneuver away from Erik. At the end of the scene, I was supposed to follow Erik into the curtained alcove, but I was resolved on doing nothing of the kind. Smart flies do not walk into a spider's web willingly. Erik was going to have to drag me, kicking and screaming, or so I hoped. In truth, I knew that once he began to sing, all my will would evaporate.

I finished my solo in the downstage right corner of the stage. I knew that I should be watching Erik, but I didn't want to look at him. I didn't have to look at him because I could feel his presence. The blocking called for him to look me up and down during the interlude, and even though I knew that he was only acting a role, his gaze brought a warm flush to my skin. I tried to keep my mind focused on the things that Erik had done, and the fate of brave MegSue in his lair and poor naïve ChristineSue who had fallen for Erik's tricks, but as soon as Erik began to sing, I was entirely lost.

There is a magic in singing that every great singer experiences from time to time. When the moment is just right, the audience becomes literally entranced by a perfect voice. The sound slips into their ear and prickles their skin until they can hardly bear to move or breathe. You know the moment by its ending, an audible gasping for air from a crowd that has been too lost in sound to breathe. For most of us, these moments are rare and treasured. For Erik, the moment could be brought on at will, at any time. It didn't matter what he was singing, it could have been the bawdiest tavern ballad or the sweetest lullaby, the effect was always the same. When Erik sang resistance melted.

I could feel Erik's voice surrounding me and inside me, as sweet as honey and as warm as wine. The vibrations shivered in my ears and then traveled lower, and lower still, making me catch my breath. I felt my hear turning towards the sound, with no power to refuse the demand inherent in the tone: look at me, desire me, need me, come to me. I couldn't see Erik's face under the black hood, but I didn't need to. Erik's power had never been in his face. Erik's face, whether handsome and sensual, or broken and hideous, was nothing compared to the urgent heat of his perfect tenor voice.

I could see the lines of Erik's body beneath his cloak. The fabric draped itself over a muscled leg, thrust forward in an attitude of masculine command and brushed lightly over his chest. I fought against the desperate urge to walk towards him. There was no room left in my mind for any thoughts other than naked desire and utter terror. I wanted to run away and I wanted to give in, to let Erik do as he liked with me. Erik stretched his hand toward me and, against my will I felt my lips part. I could hardly breathe, and with each gasp for air, I felt the tight embrace of my corset over my waist, my chest and my breasts as if it were Erik himself, pressing his flesh against mine.

Erik slowly lowered his hand and I felt prickles of electricity on my cheek, on my neck, on my bosom, and following the path of his all the way down my body. I gasped with shock and lost control of myself entirely. I felt my foot twitch and suddenly, I was moving towards Erik, but ever so slowly, at Erik's tempo and not my own, prolonging the moment and I somehow knew that when he finally touched me, I would faint or perhaps even die. I could feel the tension building inside of me, growing ever tighter, ever more unbearable until I ached for Erik to bring it to a climax and at the same time fear prickled around the edges of my mind, making the experience all the more intoxicating. I could feel hot blood pulsing and throbbing under my skin, rushing all over my body, as Erik at last began to approach me.

Erik was less than an arms' length away. Not a single sound could be heard other than Erik's delirious, siren song. I froze, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think, lost in the rapturous anticipation of the final moment, the moment where I would lose myself forever and then…

And then from Erik's throat, from Erik's sensual, honeyed throat, came a sound that I remember hearing long ago, a sound that snapped me out of my reverie and returned the power of my limbs. From Erik's hypnotic, magical, desirable throat rose up the sound of…

CO-ACK!


	35. A Point of No Return

The spell was broken but no one exhaled a sigh of relief. Nor did they laugh or jeer or even murmur. There was only a tremendous sense of shock and discomfort and amazement. Somewhere in the silence, I could hear the tinkling of a thousand crystals on the great chandelier. This was not supposed to happen to Erik. Nothing was ever to interfere with Erik. Even in Gaston Leroux's novel, Erik cannot be discomfited or defeated. He was meant to have the upper hand.

I backed away from Erik, out of arm's reach. The stage was still. The grid above us was empty. Erik drew back his hood, the better to listen for signs of his tormenter, but there was nothing to hear. He lifted his chest and drew in a deep breath but as he opened his mouth to sing, there it was again.

CO-ACK!

As Erik's eyes burned with unholy rage, I saw a shadow flicker across the set and the curtains around the alcove rustled ever so gently. Erik's mouth curved into an obscene smile. He drew a sword from under his cape- a sword that should have been a stage prop but was quite obviously very real and very sharp. In a few long strides, he was beside the alcove. There was no escape route, so surely his victim was caught. The curtains rustled again- what a foolish place to hide! Erik yanked back the curtain with one hand and made a thrust with the blade in the other, but there was no one there.

While Erik gaped at the empty alcove, a second hooded figure stepped slowly through the gate. Erik spun around and raised his sword. The figure took one look at Erik, screamed, threw back his hood and ran across the stage, making a beeline for the wings. It was the baritone who played Don Juan's servant. He had fallen asleep behind the set and when he woke up and didn't hear any singing, he assumed that it was time for him to make his entrance. This sort of thing happens more often than you might think in live theatre. This time, the audience began to giggle. They had begun to think that this was all part of the opera. Instead of high drama, _Don Juan Triumphant_ was low comedy but who's to mind as long as it's entertaining?

Erik minded. He stalked around the stage, but there was no more sign of movement. Unlike me, he was familiar with this type of prank. He didn't try to sing again, already having figured out that it would only provoke another CO-ACK. Nor did he seem interested in playing the role of the seducer. He turned to me and pointed his sword at me. Where persuasion had failed, violence would succeed but before he could move more than a step towards me, a heavy backdrop fell from the grid, missing Erik's head by inches and surprising him off his balance.

As Erik faltered, something moved at the back of the stage. The alcove was decorated with an ornament valance that ended in a draped pool of fabric on the floor. The pool of fabric was moving, rising up and resolving itself into a human shape, swathed in a black robe that was a perfect match for the one Erik had worn. Somehow, the Shade had slipped onstage, blended himself into the scenery and performed his tricks within inches of Erik, without Erik discovering the ruse. Erik was not amused. He raised his sword and advanced on the Shade. In response, the Shade drew a sword from under his robes and prepared to defend himself. If I had been armed, I would have struck Erik down right then and there, but I was left with nothing more potent than the roses in my hair. I was to be little more than a useless bystander and at worst, a potential hostage or impediment.

For a moment, everything was still and I thought that the stalemate might go on all night. On one hand, every nerve in my body was on edge, waiting to see what would happen and on the other hand, death by boredom was looking more and more likely. Neither Erik nor the Shade seemed at all likely to give up any advantage however slight, and it seemed that the first to make a move would be the first to betray himself. In the end, they moved together, in perfect unison.

The two men held their swords at the ready as they slowly circled one another. It was like watching a pair of grim reapers at a deadly masquerade. Neither of them made a sound, which made the conflict all the more eerie. The Shade had already made his point and Erik was angered beyond speech. Nothing less than blood would assuage Erik and I had a sinking feeling that the Shade might in a similar mood.

In the end, it was Erik who struck first. Metal clashed against metal with such force that sparks flew. At first, I was able to follow the fight, but they were moving so quickly that I couldn't keep my eyes focused on one or the other. I couldn't tell who was winning and at times I even wondered who was who. I kept an eye on GirySue, who still hovered in the wings, unsure of how to proceed. She didn't want to risk being exposed on stage but I knew that she would be itching to step and help her beloved Erik. I could almost see the thoughts flash through her eyes. Erik would be so grateful! Erik would finally see that she loved him the most! Erik would love her! No price was too great for the sake of love!

Erik was an enthusiastic fighter, but he wasn't skilled. It made sense that he wouldn't be. When would he have learned to fence and who would have taught him? Erik was exhausting himself with every blow, while the Shade easily darted and parried, waiting for his enemy to expend the last of his energy. It began as a fight and quickly degenerated into a farce. Erik knew it and so did the Shade. In the Shade's place, I would have killed Erik and I would not have regretted it. However, the Shade couldn't bring himself to do it. He had endless chances to step in and make a killing thrust, but he held back, waiting for the chance to disarm Erik. It amazed me that after all that Erik had done, he could still arouse our pity. Christine had pitied him. The Persian pitied him and so did the Shade, apparently. I pitied Erik too, but I would have preferred to be feeling sorry for his corpse rather than a living, breathing, armed Erik.

At last, the Shade found his opportunity, with a graceful flick of his hand, he sent Erik's sword skittering across the stage until it rested within a few feet of me. I picked it up and held onto it tightly, rather than risk it falling into GirySue's hands. I had almost expected Erik to run or at least to disappear, but he stood his ground.

"I suppose you think you've won," sneered Erik, but his eyes weren't on the Shade. He was looking out at the crystal chandelier, which had begun to sway perilously back and forth.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the Shade. "Not unless you've figured out how to shut off the gas first." Erik paused and the Shade continued in a good-natured tone, "The gas lines will break and flood the theater. By the time the chandelier crushes me to death, we'll have already been blown to kingdom come- including you and your perfect face."

The air was rent by an inhuman howl of rage, as GirySue rushed from the wings, black silk fluttering in her wake like the flapping of a raven's wings and brandishing her knife at the Shade. The Shade spun around before she could strike him from behind. It all happened so quickly that I was unable to reach them before it was over. GirySue roared like an animal, slashing at the Shade with her knife. He quickly wrestled from her hand, but she flung herself at him with a wild cry. I think she had intended to bite or claw at him, but she only succeeded in impaling herself on her own knife. At that moment, Erik calmly stepped forward, reached out with one hand, and pulled back the Shade's hood.


	36. Down Once More

"How nice to see you again, my old friend," Erik said jovially, "It's nice to see you haven't forgotten everything I taught you."

It was the first time that I had ever seen the Shade look truly disconcerted, however it was also the first time I had ever seen his face at all, so it was no wonder the expression seemed new. People don't go around hiding their faces without a good reason for it, but looking into the Shade's face, no explanation presented itself. He had the same intense eyes that had been alternately interesting and annoying me for some time now. He also had a nose, cheek, lips and all the accoutrements that belong on faces. Somehow, I'd expected hideous scars or a cleft lip, or some simple other easy explanation for all the scarves and cloaks and hiding. There was none. He did not share Erik's remarkable beauty, but he looked well enough, perhaps even handsome. There were no answers in his face, only more questions.

"Up to your old trick again, I see," Erik continued, waving his hand in GirySue's general direction, but ignoring her pleading eyes. The front of her black dress was stained with blood, and the bloodied knife that the Shade had wrestled from her was still in his hand.

"These are not my tricks, Erik. Murder was always your area of expertise," the Shade answered, fighting for control over his voice and mostly losing.

Erik was tremendously amused with himself, "Really? I daresay that the French police might disagree with you on that point. What was that charming little name the papers came up with for you? Refresh my memory, would you?"

"I never killed anyone and you know it." The Shade snapped back.

"Really? Then perhaps you should have mentioned that to the court instead of running off and hiding," there was something vicious in Erik's voice, something that I hadn't heard before, "Of course, what can one expect from a thief? Oh I remember the headline, 'Magician Murders Manager' had a nice ring, I thought. I remember being quite surprised that you left so many clues around for the police to find."

I vaguely remembered reading about the case. An artists' manager had been found strangled in his office by a stage magician that he had been representing. Apparently, there had been so much evidence that the guilty man might as well have been in the room, dancing on the tables naked while singing "I did it! It was me!" for all the evidence he had left behind. The police had come after him, but he had escaped and fled, proving that although he had been an incompetent criminal, he was a skilled illusionist. It had happened in some dumpy little theater on the other side of town, and I had never connected any of it with the opera house or Erik.

I turned and met the Shade's gaze. He looked back at me intently, almost pleading but I wasn't sure what to say or do. There was something in his look that burned, and the bloodied knife was still in his hand. He took a step towards me but instinct betrayed me and I flinched away. The Shade's face fell. It was as if I had struck him. I could see it in his eyes but there was nothing I could say and no way to take it back. It took a step forward, but he just stood there looking defeated and lost.

"Perhaps I should have expected you to turn to crime," Erik continued, "After all, your tricks were never more than pale imitations of mine. To think that I took you under my wing, and in return you betrayed all my secrets. Did you think you would become famous and successful while I languished in obscurity just because you were blessed with a face that people could bear to see?"

I waited for the Shade to respond, but he said nothing. He just stood there, looking at me. I wanted him to defend himself or at least explain, but he didn't. It was as if he had stopped caring or had been brought so low already that nothing Erik said could matter and I had a feeling that it was all my fault.

"You lost everything, didn't you?" Erik pressed on, becoming ever more pleased with himself, and ever more triumphant, "I wonder how that must have felt. I wouldn't know, since I never had anything to begin with. I wonder how it must feel to look in the mirror and know that you have only yourself to blame…"

"It sounds like you're the one to blame, Erik" I snapped. I hadn't meant to say it aloud, but there it was. I privately resolved to give the Shade holy hell over not telling me his history sooner, but now was not the time.

"What did you say?" Erik's voice had turned to ice. He had been just about dancing around the stage in his glee, but now he was absolutely still. His handsome face twisted itself into a hideous mask of hatred and rage, far more unpleasant than any deformity that an unfeeling god might have inflicted upon him.

"You're the one who murdered Christine Daaé, I'm sure of it!" I yelled back, if only to make sure that it was said before Erik could get to me, "And I wouldn't be surprised if you killed Joseph Buquet and anyone else who has died in this plot. There is only one murderer in _The Phantom of the Opera_, Erik- you!"

With a hoarse cry, Erik flew at me. I thought that this was surely my end and it was my own fault for provoking a crazy person. Erik was going to murder me right there, in front of everyone and no one was going to do a single thing about it because they were all stone idiots. Why no one had bothered to shoot Erik when he was standing right there in the open, practically asking for it was beyond me. Erik's soul might not have been redeemed but apparently his reputation had been. Erik was so lovable that everyone adored him, even when he was about to commit murder right before their eyes.

At the last possible second, the Shade stepped in front of me and held his sword at the ready. Apparently, he had decided to rejoin the world of living, and not a moment too soon. I am not particularly impressed by the sort of female who cannot take care of herself, and goes about swooning over any man who is willing to take the responsibility off her hands, but I confess that I breathed a sigh of extreme relief and if it sounded somewhat swooning, so be it.

"So be it," said Erik, with a sick, forced smile, "Now it is war upon you both." Well, technically it already was, but can you really expect sense to come from the mouth of a madman? Erik turned and ran upstage, all the way up the stairs and into the center of the bridge.

"This just can't be good," said the Shade.

Erik looked deeply disturbed. His hair was unkempt and his shirt had fallen open all the way to navel. I couldn't tell if he was crying or sweating but it was not pretty. His chest was heaving with the effort of either sobbing or possibly all the running around he'd been doing lately. Whatever it was, ChristineSue or GirySue would no doubt be delighted to soothe his supposed pain, or muscle fatigue. Erik flung his arm out in the general direction of the chandelier, and screamed "Now!"

All of a sudden, we were plunged into complete darkness. Someone had shut off the gas to the theater. I didn't have to ask what would happen next. Any imbecile would have that figured out, even without the strange noise of groaning metal against tinkling crystal coming from above and moving rapidly, and contrary to all the laws of physics, in the general direction of the stage. To give credit where credit was due, Madame Giry had been paying enough attention to know to turn off the gas, so that we wouldn't be blown up before she crushed us to death.

The Shade snatched me into his arms and said, "Hold on!" as the ground opened up beneath our feet. I sincerely hoped that he knew what he was doing, because death by falling is not particularly preferable to death by chandelier. Death is death, after all.

**TECHNICALLY NOT SPOILERS BUT READ AT YOUR OWN RISK**

**A/N- As I'm getting into solving a few puzzles, I figure it's time to include some notes about the story. I will admit that some of the rules of the story evolved over time and that this is really a draft, as opposed to a completed project. Also, input from reviewers has affected which ideas were kept and which were jettisoned. I dropped a couple of things that caused confusion and ran with some ideas that everyone enjoyed. In a sense, the Shade evolved and I hate unmasking him because it means committing myself to one solid idea, that fits with the clues, which are as follows:**

**1. Carlotta can see the Shade's eyes, and probably the bridge of his nose between his scarves and hats, and she has explicitly stated that what she sees is attractive. If the Shade has a deformity or scars, they've somehow missed that part of his face. Carlotta has also kissed him once and has touched his cheek, and if there was something wrong, she'd have noted it. There really isn't any room for a deformity.**

**2. We know that the Shade speaks clearly and doesn't have any physical limitations, so he isn't injured or ill, nor can he have a cleft palate. Carlotta might not interpret things correctly, but she is honest about what she sees and makes logical guesses based on the information that she has.**

**3. Erik met the Shade and recognized him, therefore the Shade must be the Shade. If not, why wouldn't Erik have said something? Since when is Erik nice to strangers? Why would he protect someone he doesn't know? This is also me being really sneaky, because through the rest of the story, I've kept the Shade away from people who could identify him conclusively because he already has been identified by Erik. **

**4. The bumbling managers would also know the Shade. He does bring people to their office. If he was someone else, they would have said something. **

**5. Although the Shade avoids the Persian at his house, they do run into one another at the opera house. If the Shade was not the Shade, why wouldn't the Persian warn the other characters? **

**6. Erik and the Shade must have a back story because they know each other's tricks and hate each other's guts. They're sniping at each other almost the instant they come into contact, which is pretty weird if they haven't met before.**

**7. There are two good reasons why Erik hasn't tried to unmask the Shade before. Firstly, every time Erik fights with the Shade, he gets his ass kicked which means that pissing him off for no good reason would not be wise. Secondly, it wouldn't have been a big deal earlier in the story when the Shade wasn't as attached to Carlotta and the others. Erik is smart enough to know that the unmasking could be a trump card for him, if he was patient. **

**8. Unmasking a deformed guy in a story based on a book about unmasking a deformed guy? Oh come on, that's no fun at all.**


	37. Shadow of Doubt

Normally, performers do not free-fall through the stage. In most operas, being sucked down to Hades means that you stand on a platform that sinks down beneath the stage at a steady but rather slow speed. The stage does not open itself up to swallow people. Trap doors do not simply pop open all willy-nilly, dumping performers here and there and everywhere. Firstly, it would be dangerous and secondly, it would look ridiculous. As we dropped through the stage, I felt my skirts trying to fly right up over my head, but there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I hoped that the audience hadn't seen it. We landed on a very large pile of hay about eight feet below the stage in a very compromising position.

Several minutes later, I remembered that I was extremely angry with the Shade and extricated myself from the tangle of limbs and clothes. "Now what are we supposed to do?" I asked, picking straw out of my hair. Obviously, someone had taken a considerable amount of time to bring in all that straw from the stables. I guessed that it was the Shade's doing. He had certainly kept himself busy.

"There's a ladder back up to the stage, but it's useless to us because of the chandelier. We'll have to go down through the cellars, instead," The Shade replied cautiously.

"Did you know all this would happen?" I asked. In one way, I didn't want to know. I didn't want to find out that I had been a gullible fool, and the Shade was, in his way, as bad as Erik or possibly worse. I couldn't say that he had lied, but he certainly hadn't been forthcoming with the truth.

"I only guessed," said the Shade, "Erik did teach me most of his tricks, although I never stole any of them, regardless of what he says."

"What he did up there went beyond tricks, that chandelier couldn't go flying at the stage like that, not even with an accomplice to help arrange it."

"No, that was real magic," said the Shade, "I could make you think that the chandelier was flying at the stage, but I couldn't make it truly happen. However, even with real magic, Erik keeps playing the same old game."

"Which you'd know all about because you and Erik have been best friends forever," I filled in, "and now you're going to explain all of that so I won't have to angry with you anymore."

"That's very generous of you," replied the Shade in his usual tone, which is to say, surly.

"Don't push your luck," I replied tartly, "You can tell me on the way down to the fifth cellar. I just hope that Raoul and the others get there in time."

"I realize that you're not in the mood to listen to me right now, but I really don't think that it's a good idea for you to go down there. It's still Erik's domain and he's far more powerful now than he was before."

"Erik has already proven that he can get to us no matter where we go. As long as we're in the opera house, he has the upper hand. We might as well go down there and have it out with him for once and for all. I am so very tired of Erik's nonsense," I sighed.

"Erik, unfortunately, never tires of it," said the Shade. He dug around in his pockets and produced a match. The light was just enough to show where he had stashed several lanterns near the wall. "I don't suppose your dress has any pockets?"

"No, it doesn't and it isn't really my dress," I replied, while the Shade lit a lantern.

"Are you sure about that? Aren't you the least bit suspicious that the costume fits you and probably wouldn't have fit ChristineSue?"

"I had my suspicions that Erik might be looking for an excuse to drop a chandelier on my head, which he ultimately did, which means that my suspicions were entirely correct," I answered. Men can be so odd at times.

"I don't think he was planning to drop the chandelier," said the Shade.

"Except for the part where he must have arranged some way to make the chandelier fall on his command and coached his little minion in advance so she'd scuttle off to shut down the gas before it dropped," I pointed out. "It seems like quite a lot of effort to go through if he wasn't planning on dropping the chandelier at some point."

"I wish I knew whether you were being brilliantly logical or thoroughly dense."

"I'd go with brilliant, if I were you," I answered, after all, I was mad at him, "So, how exactly do you know Erik? Is there something in Leroux that I missed?"

"A story cannot exist without an implied back story. Whether the author thinks it through clearly or not, every character has an implied past of some kind. If Erik allows some people free access to his opera house but murders others for trespassing, you have to conclude that there's a reason for it."

"Erik is completely insane. I don't really expect any sort of logic from anything he does."

"And that's going to get you into trouble. Erik is a madman, but he's still quite intelligent and he does nothing without some kind of a reason, even if they aren't reasons that you choose to understand," said the Shade, "ChristineSue has been more difficult to figure out. I'm not entirely sure that she's capable of thinking, much less thinking clearly."

"None of them think clearly around Erik. I don't think it's his handsome face either. He does terrible things, and we all still want to see some kind of wounded puppy in him, rather than a clever sociopath," I didn't want to admit that I felt Erik's draw as keenly as anyone else.

"He's an old hand at it," said the Shade, "Whenever anyone sees through him, he harps on his deformed face and past suffering. His face isn't his fault, but all of the rest is entirely self-inflicted. Erik is alone because of Erik's behavior, not his looks."

There are times when it is best not to say anything at all, because leaving a silence encourages other people to fill it up by talking. I had a feeling that if I let the Shade go on about Erik, I'd learn everything I could ever want to know. I just hoped that I wouldn't end up having to escape from the both of them.

"When I met Erik, he was exhibiting himself in fairs and performing magic tricks. He had read about P.T. Barnum and how his performers were great stars who performed for crowned heads. Erik was convinced that he would become even more famous. He went on about it constantly, how his tricks were so much more clever and his performances were so much more exciting.

"He came to my father with designs for the props he'd use in his shows. Erik was never really interested in building anything himself. It was beneath his dignity, he always said, although I think that wasn't true. He simply didn't have the strength or the energy for it, but he never wanted to admit it. He already tried to pass himself as perfect in all ways, save for his appearance. In a fair fight, he tires very quickly not that he ever fights fair.

"I was only a child at the time, and Erik seemed completely fascinating. He made his tricks look like real magic and I just about worshipped him. He loved showing them off and explaining how they were done. He was obsessed with his own cleverness and keeping his secrets spoiled his fun. He didn't only want to fool the audience; he wanted to brag about how easily it had been done. With an assistant, he could perform more complex illusions and he convinced me to run away from home to work as his assistant.

"At first, it was exciting and Erik made a great fuss over having an apprentice, but there was always something a little odd about Erik. He had no friends, even among the carnival folk who were used to seeing oddities like Erik. One minute, he would praise me to the skies and the next he was screaming abuse. Nothing was ever good enough to meet Erik's standards. If anything went wrong, it was someone else's fault and if I did something right, Erik took the credit. Sometimes it seemed like he didn't even know that he was doing it. He'd tell himself that my ideas were his ideas and then he'd start to believe his own lies.

"The longer we went on, the more frustrated and furious Erik became because he didn't have the success that he thought he deserved. He blamed it all on his face. In truth, he performances were so dark and macabre that it's no wonder people weren't flocking to see him. He talked of nothing but death and his illusions always involved some kind of blood or torment. His audience was always more sickened than entertained and his reputation as a monster was spreading."

"All the way to Persia," I added, remember the Persian's story of Erik's background in traveling fairs before he was discovered by some eastern dignitary.

"Where he found someone of similar inclinations," the Shade said, "Erik was pleased with himself to no end. He was finally recognized for his brilliance and that was that. He was off to Persia leaving me behind to fend for myself. He was going to be a master architect, attended by servants and living in a palace and he had no more use for an apprentice. Bear in mind, I was about eleven years old at the time and was left with nowhere to go and no possible hope of taking care of myself but that didn't bother Erik in the least." The bitterness was beginning to slip through his tone.

"No, I don't suppose it would," I offered, "Erik doesn't take much interest in anything other than Erik." I wasn't exactly sure what to say, given the circumstances, but I decided that it would be best if the Shade let it all out before we were faced with any more emergencies, "So what did you do?"

"I stayed with the fair and did odd jobs. Erik had abandoned us in Novgorod, but I figured that eventually we'd come back to France and I could go home and plead forgiveness. They let me do some of my tricks for the audience and without Erik's horror and malice, everything went well. So, I ended up sticking around, performing at fairs. It wasn't such a bad life, and I was able to avoid going home shamed. I thought that eventually I'd earn enough money to go home with my head high. I could afford to build larger illusions and I had assistants of my own.

"I was asked to perform at theaters, which was quite a bit more respectable than the traveling fairs. Everything was going well until I made the mistake of coming to Paris. I hadn't heard anything of Erik in years, and I foolishly assumed that he was still in Persia or maybe had died there."

"And Erik couldn't let you succeed where he had failed," I sighed.

"I started getting anonymous notes, accusing me of being a thief and making all kinds of threats. The theater manager received them as well and so did my manager, but they thought that it must be some deranged person sending them and I started to think the same thing. It didn't seem possible for Erik to have materialized in Paris without anyone noticing his presence, but he had. The notes became uglier and more vicious, and when that didn't work, Erik decided to take more direct action."

"By killing your manager and pinning it on you," I said.

"I think it was Erik's idea of justice. I had stolen Erik's great career so why shouldn't I hang for Erik's crime? I had no alibi, Erik had left behind plenty of circumstantial evidence that pointed to me and the one person who could have spoken on my behalf was dead. I had no choice but to run."

"But how did you end up here?" It isn't as if the managers of the Paris Opera were advertising opening for shades, phantoms, ghosts and disenfranchised lunatics of all descriptions.

"Erik led me here. He simple couldn't resist the chance to gloat. He started skulking around the theaters, hoping to find me lying in a gutter somewhere so that he could laugh himself sick at my expense. Luckily for me, Erik's poor health betrayed him. He didn't have the energy for running all over the city and I caught him, wheezing away in an alley. I followed him back to the opera house and figured that he was controlling the opera managers using the same kinds of threats that he'd tried to use on mine. I presented myself to them and offered to keep an eye on things down here- to look for ghosts and to bring anyone I found lurking about straight to the managers. They were delighted and hired me on the spot with no questions asked. So, I carved out a place for myself in the recesses of the opera house and I've been miserable ever since, right up until the point where I found you wandering around down here…" the Shade paused, "…like a damned fool."

The Shade is charming as ever.


	38. Conjuror's Tricks

There is a repertoire of phrases that people are expected to utter when someone tells them their life story, and the story turns out to be a tragedy. None of them seemed appropriate. Expressing understanding was impossible and offering sympathy seemed trite. Besides, I didn't think that either would have been greeted with appreciation or affection. I wanted to apologize, but I wasn't really sure what I was sorry for- or maybe I was just sorry in general. I was sorry that Erik had ruined so many lives, and I was sorry for the display during _Don Juan Triumphant_ and, more than anything, I was sorry that our adventure would be over when we found the manuscript.

Having no words worth saying, I contented myself by saying nothing. The Shade was striding along several paces ahead of me, with all the weight of the world hunched into his shoulders. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I didn't need to. I already knew the expression, the knitted brows and the tightened lips. I'd seen it on stage while Erik was crowing over his supposed victory, although it was hardly much of a victory given that he had already won the fight when the Shade had been forced as deep underground as Erik was himself. However, I didn't actually have to make any effort to keep up, and if the Shade had really wanted to be alone with his thoughts, I had no doubts that he could have stormed ahead, leaving me to trot behind like a desperate lap dog.

I took a couple of longer steps, and caught the Shade's hand. I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, but at worse he would ask me what the hell I thought I was doing, and as a female in presumed distress, I could claim that I was scared. Technically, I was somewhat scared, although it wasn't really the dominant feeling at the time. Instead, the Shade sort of pulled me around and we were embracing before I had time to think any more about it.

"So what happens now?" said the Shade, gazing down at me.

I thought about it for a moment before answering, "We get the manuscript back from the nice sociopath in the cellars while the hero is busy fighting with an army of teenaged nymphomaniacs and then everything goes back to normal, presumably."

"Leaving us?"

"Miserable," I said with confidence, "Luckily, you're already used to it and I can blame it all on the co-ack incident."

The Shade's eyes crinkled at the corners, and he laughed, which had been my intention. Then he cupped my face in his hands and looked straight into my eyes and I had that same out of control sense of falling that I felt on the stage with Erik, only this time I didn't feel sick with it. I could feel time stopping, like the moment was stretching out to infinity as the Shade leaned ever so slowly to kiss me. I had kissed him before, truth be told, I had peeled myself away from him, but this was different. This was somehow deeper and more passionate, and rather than feeling like I was going to die, I felt like I wanted to live, right here and right now, in this moment forever.

I have not been blessed with the mind of a romantic. In the middle of a dark, cold, stone corridor several stories beneath an opera house, I cannot turn off the part of my mind that wonders just how hard to floor is and how dirty and whether or not someone is going to end up with a rather erotic concussion. On the other hand, the possibility of imminent destruction does make one somewhat unwilling to wait for more convenient circumstances to present themselves, and the human mind can be extremely inventive when there is something that it wants very badly. Nor am I inclined to explain precisely what form that invention might have taken or just how useful a heavy, black robe can be in trying times.

My poor silk dress was beyond hope of salvaging, and I had little chance of lacing myself back into it in the dark and without the help of a mirror or a small army of maids. Since it wasn't meant to be my dress in the first place, I didn't feel sorry to leave it behind. If I'd have my choice, I'd have taken a page from MegSue's book and dressed myself in boy's clothes. Since nothing of the kind was available, I had to content myself with the least fluffy of my several petticoats and the inescapable corset. The Shade kindly loaned me his jacket, which didn't match the pink trim on my clothes at all, but I was in no position to be fussy.

We moved quickly through the dark, stone corridors, ever downwards and deeper into Erik's domain, hand in hand like Hansel and Gretel all grown up- however, there was no need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find our way back. We weren't ever coming back. The idea had bothered before, but that bother was a single drop of water compared to the ocean of misgivings I had now. The Shade wasn't talking, but I was almost certain that he was thinking something along the same lines. If we started talking, the conversation would have begun with "I don't want to" and it would have ended with the two of turning right around and making a run for it, out of the opera house and into a future, albeit a future where Erik was a megalomaniac with magic powers.

Besides, there was MegSue to worry about. She was still trapped somewhere down there in Erik's lair, possibly with ChristineSue to keep her company and GirySue looking after the pair of them with all the kindness of a black widow spider. However, if all of them had found a way into our novel, it stood to reason that there had to be a way out. Maybe we could slip away into some other story where there wasn't any Erik and we could spend the rest of our literary lives quietly happy. It was worth a try. MegSue hadn't seemed any more enthusiastic about returning to her old story than I was about my career as Christine Daaé's absentee rival.

We rounded a corner and emerged from the darkness into an open space with bright lighting, which appeared to be provided by torches which had been set into the walls at regular intervals. Ahead of us, a winding stone stairway led downwards into the bowels of the earth. The change from opera basement to castle keep that we were now in Erik's world, and that Erik's rules would apply from this point forward. Any fear I might have had was tempered by the fact that there was no way any of this nonsense could possibly exist under any opera house, no matter how palatial. Erik needed to lay off the gothic novels. If we couldn't get the manuscript away from him, we would surely end up permanently out of print, because what kind of person wants to read such incomprehensible schlock?

"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked the Shade, with one of those strangely intense looks of his.

"Yes," I answered, "Any fate is better than spending all eternity in a plot where chandeliers fall sideways and the opera cellars look like a rejected setting for a third-rate Robin Hood novel."

"Stay a few paces behind me, just in case something happens," said the Shade.

"What exactly do you think will happen?" I asked warily. After all, the Shade did know all of Erik's tricks and it isn't likely that Erik had grown a new imagination within the last hour or so.

"You might also want to put your hand at the level of your eyes," the Shade added.

"Does that actually help?"

"Theoretically, yes- although, in practice, no it hasn't even done anybody any good at all," the Shade answered, as he edged along the wall.

"If we'd really thought this through," I said, "We'd have had Raoul sit in the audience with a rifle. He could have shot Erik two minutes after he walked on stage and then we wouldn't be having these problems. I can't understand why no one ever comes up with anything simple like that."

"Firstly, that wouldn't make for a very interesting story," said the Shade, "And secondly—" But I never found out what secondly was, because at that moment, the stone steps underneath the Shade's feet opened up and he dropped below the floor, landing with a splash somewhere below.

I dropped to my knees, hoping that he might be close enough to reach, but he'd dropped at least eight feet into a pool of dark water below. Not only that, an iron grate covered the opening. Even if I had thrown myself down there, I could not have reached him. "Are you alright?" I called, unable to see the Shade in the shadows. I heard a sharp click, and then the groan of rusted metal, as the mechanism that controlled the grate began to work. I still couldn't figure out exactly how it had gotten there at all, but it was now sinking towards the water. "God damn you, answer me!" I screamed into the darkness below.

"Bloody hell!" The voice of the Shade, shouted back, having discovered that stoic silence was not having the desired effect, "You have to keep going!"

"I can't leave you here," I shouted, "You'll be killed! Tell me how to get you out of there."

"There's nothing you can do. Just go!!" And with that, the Shade let himself sink under the water and I heard no more from him.

I edged past the gaping hole in the floor and then took off at a run, not caring whether I fell into another trap or whether my hand was at the level of my eyes. I couldn't see anyway, because my eyes were full of tears. I wasn't sure if they were tears of grief or tears of rage or something else entirely. Some primitive part of my mind insisted that if I didn't see the Shade die, it wouldn't be real and it wouldn't have happened, but I could still hear the groan of moving metal and I knew that it was probably already too late.

I bounded down the stairs and into the next series of corridors, where the light faded into blackness. I remembered the lantern, and then remembered that the Shade had it and then remembered that I couldn't think about it. So much for a way out, it was now the manuscript or nothing.

Unfortunately, my resolve didn't resurface before the floor slipped away beneath me, and I found that I had blundered into Erik's favorite trap.


	39. Erik's Reflection

The fall stunned me for a moment. I paused a moment to clear my head and then slowly picked myself up off the ground. My eyes still hadn't adjusted to the darkness. I reached out tentatively, groping in the black shadows until my hands struck a wall- a wall that was cold and smooth as ice. It was a mirror- not just one but many mirrors. As my eyes became used to the dimness, I could see a disheveled, wretched woman staring back at me, multiplied over and over. I remembered the way I had begun, proud in golden silk, expertly draped by the most famous dressmaker in Paris and now I had come to this, a ragged mess with loose hair, clutching a man's jacket around me to hide my soiled corset and torn petticoats with a face that was red from crying and sticky with dried tears. I could also see that I wasn't alone.

I thought at first that Erik was behind me, but when I spun around, there was no one there- only reflections of reflections- a thousand loose white shirts revealing a glimpse of a perfectly muscled chest and a thousand pairs of tantalizingly tight pants, but this time, there was nothing in him that had any power to attract me. I saw his mouth curve into a cruel smile, then he threw back his head and the chamber echoed with the sound of his laughter. I moved towards the sound and nearly lost my balance when I ran straight into another mirror. The laugher became louder and more maniacal, although Erik's demeanor hadn't changed. He raised his arm and I reflexively shied away only to find myself confronted with yet another Erik who seemed to be even closer and more threatening. Everywhere I turned, he was there- laughing, taunting and luxuriating in the thoroughness of his victory over the Shade, and over me.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to stop and think, wrapping my arms around myself. My hands brushed against the rough wool fabric of the Shade's jacket and I gripped the cloth in my fingers and forced back a tear. I wanted to sink down to the floor, to bury my head in the cloth and to hope that I could find some kind of comfort in it. Some small part of my mind grasped at the happy thought of the Shade appearing suddenly to rescue me, but I knew that it couldn't be. I was on my own. Erik probably intended to kill me, but as far as I was concerned, he was welcome to do so. I had no reason to carry on in this story, and once the manuscript was read, I probably wouldn't remember any of it. If Erik was here with me, then with luck the Persian and Leroux had a clear path into Erik's lair and out again. It would all be over soon.

I knew that I had to do something that would hold Erik's attention, at least for a little while longer. It was the only help that I had left to offer to MegSue and Raoul. As long as I seemed to be fighting, or better yet, losing, Erik would stay near by to enjoy his victory. If I could figure out the trap, then Erik would probably keep coming after me just from sheer pique and with luck I could lead him away from his lair long enough for the others to finish their work. Granted, Erik could do magic, but it wasn't very good magic. All he really did was embroider on his same old act. All of his old tricks were illusions, and simple ones at that. I repeated it in my mind until I started to feel like it was true. There was probably some sort of false door like the one he had once built into Christine's dressing room, but how would I find it?

I glanced around, feeling lost. I stretched out my arms and a hundred of me reached back. Erik seemed to be standing right next to me on my right, then he took a single step and it was as if he'd disappeared and rematerialized on my left. Were the mirrors angled in some way, so that he could project his image over a distance? I tried to trace his reflection from one panel to the next, and ended back where I had begun. The trap was too cleverly designed. Still, there had to be a trick and Erik had to be there somewhere. His laugher shifted from one direction to another, then seemed to be coming from inside my own ears. Instinctively, I covered my ears with my hands, but it made no difference. Erik's voice echoed from under my fingers. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to shake the sound out of my mind but to no avail. When I looked up, Erik's reflection appeared in the periphery of my vision and then slipped away. I found myself flailing among the reflections, unsure of where Erik might be or even where I was. Finally it occurred to me that I was going about this the wrong way.

I took a deep breath to steady myself. The laughter was still there, but fading. I wondered whether Erik planned to make me insane before he killed me, but I knew that train of thought would only lead to disaster.

I shut my eyes and groped for the nearest mirrored panel. Feeling my way along, I went from one panel to the next, running my fingers against the joins in the glass. I had been guessing that the room was some sort of regular geometric shape. It wasn't. Each angle was slightly different. That was how Erik had created such a sense of confusion and disorientation. There was no way to decipher the room by sight, unless you knew how it was constructed. Every angle was just slightly off kilter, just enough to leave a normal person feeling seasick if they looked too hard for too long. All at once the laughter stopped and the room became so silent that I could hear the sound of my own breathing and the rustle of the fabric in my petticoat. I felt a surge of panic welling up inside me. Had Erik left? What if I had misjudged the trap! The cold, emptiness of the room and the echo of my steps was ten times more frightening than any sound Erik could have mustered.

I knew that if I opened my eyes, I would become disoriented again and then I would have to begin exploring the room all over again. If Erik had left, but I didn't want to think about what would happen if Erik had left. "Erik?" I said, but there was no answer. "Erik, are you still there?"

I began to shiver. It occurred to me that for the first time in this adventure, I was truly afraid. Erik could leave me here to die, if he wanted to. Erik could slip away to murder the others and then return at his leisure to torture me, if that was his inclination. All the same, it wasn't as if I had any choice but to keep on going, so I kept feeling my way along and making mental notes of how many panels I passed by and what the angles were like. I drew blueprints in my head of tricks and traps and wondered if the Shade was truly dead, or if he was as much of a trickster as Erik- and I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or worse. If he was alive, he wasn't coming to my rescue and if he was not… once again, I pushed all thoughts from my mind save for the panels of chill glass under my searching hands.

There were six panels, then seven, then eight and just as I began to fear that I would end up back where I started and not much the better for it, I felt a sharp corner where the cold glass seemed to fall away into an open space. I gasped with relief and felt my way forward into the alcove- a space just large enough to allow someone to hide comfortably and easily, and to control when and how their victim might be able to see them. Under ideal circumstances, the victim would be far too confused and hysterical to guess that the secret was so simple. The room was large enough that someone could run around blindly for hours without ever connecting the dots. With my eyes still shut, I followed the alcove back a little bit further, until I was fairly certain that I could look around without losing my bearings. I opened my eyes and then recoiled, as I found myself nose to nose with Erik in the flesh.

As quickly as a cobra strikes, Erik's hand shot forward, catching my forearm and wrenching it with such force that I cried out and dropped to me knees. "Feeling very clever, aren't we?" Erik sneered at me. His face may have been handsome, but his expression was more terrifying than his deformity ever could have been. "Don't you have something pithy to say about this? Come along, I was expecting some sarcastic little quip, some glib little witticism now that you think you know all my tricks." As he spoke, his grip slowly tightened on my arm, until I winced.

"I don't know all your tricks, and I don't have to because all you have are tricks. You're not a ghost or a magician or a tormented soul, you're just a bully." I replied angrily, struggling to free myself from Erik's grip.

Erik twisted my arm so hard that it brought tears to my eyes. "Tsk tsk, if you don't settle down, you'll make me break your arm."

I spat back through gritted teeth, "I'm not making you do anything. You want to break my arm. You're enjoying this and you've always enjoyed it. You like hurting people!"

Erik drew back, dragging me forward. I held onto his wrist with my free hand, hoping that I might be able to prevent him from carrying out his threats. In my braver moments, I might have told myself that I was equal to whatever Erik might inflict upon me, but the truth was that I was helpless and desperately afraid of pain. He glared down at me, "If you had suffered what I have suffered and seen what I have seen, you wouldn't be so smugly righteous. The world made me this way."

"The world did nothing of the kind, because life doesn't work that way, Erik!" I saw the look in his eye and continued quickly, hoping to at least distract him, "If life was like that then every person who was rich or privileged or beautiful would be a saint and you and I both know that isn't so. Other people have suffered as terribly as you have but it didn't make them into torturers and murderers." Erik's face twisted itself into a mask of rage, but I found myself going on, not caring what would come of it, "You could have chosen to be a decent man, Erik, but you didn't. You went to Turkey and used all your great genius to do terrible things, and then you came here to do more terrible things. It doesn't matter how handsome you are on the outside now, you're still a monster on the inside and I pity you for it!"

With a furious roar, Erik lunged forward and caught me by the neck. I screamed and twisted away for all I was worth, but to no avail. I would never have believed that blue eyes could glow with rage and hatred before that moment. I thought to myself that this was most certainly the end. I hoped that I had bought enough time for the others to find the manuscript book, so that they could exorcise this handsome horror from the story and maybe some of them might be able to get out with their lives. I could feel myself slipping away, as Erik shook me by the throat, without ever slackening his grip. With a single, graceful motion, he threw my head back and the last sound I heard was the dull thud as my skull slammed against the wall. After that, there was nothing.


	40. Doll Song

Have you ever been lost in that moment between waking and sleeping, where you're not quite sure whether your dreams are real or false, but the only thing you actually care about is how comfortable your pillow feels? I felt my cheek brushing against the crisp linen, warmed by contact with my skin and so perfectly soft that I didn't want to move. Somewhere, deep in my mind, I thought about getting up and starting the day again- another rehearsal for music I would never sing, another gala to miss and another tragic night of humiliation capped off by a falling chandelier. I really didn't want to get up. My mind drifted back to an adventure that surely must have been a dream, but I wanted to savor it a little longer. I replayed it all in mind, pausing only when I reached the place where the Shade was lost because it felt so fresh and real that tears welled up in my eyes. In my mind, I rewrote the story into one when we all ended happily, and allowed myself to continue drifting between dreams and waking, hoping that I might slip back into the old adventure, but this time with a new ending. Just as I was starting to slip back into a contented oblivion, I heard a sound.

Still lost between reality and fantasy, I imagined myself seeking out the source of the sound, which turned out to be a pipe organ, although how it was playing without any pipes at all, I couldn't quite fathom. The organ also appeared to be playing itself, and in my hazy state, I imagined myself trying to slap an unseen presence away from the keys, but to no avail. Angry that some unseen ghost was keeping me from my dream and my imagined lover, I railed at the instrument, beating on it with my hands and then with anything else that came to hand until there was no more than a pile of broken wood and loose keys, but still it played and played until at last there was nothing to do but shake myself back into the waking world, where the faint sound of organ music had somehow drifted into my bedroom. I groaned and rolled over, pulling a pillow over my head, and as I did so, I felt a dull, throbbing ache at the back of my head. Without opening my eyes, I reached up a tentative hand and pushed my fingers into my hair, running them over my scalp and there it was, a great, swollen, lump where Erik had struck my head against the wall in my dream… which could only mean that I had not been dreaming, and I was in a whole new world of trouble.

I felt that I could be reasonably certain that I had not been dumped into a dungeon somewhere, or if I had, Erik had apparently come up with some kind of torture by fluffy comforters which seemed a little over-inventive even for him. The organ music continued to play nearby, which most likely meant that Erik was in another room and not standing directly over me with a knife in one hand and a Punjab lasso in the other. I slowly opened my eyes to find my gaze met by a vividly malevolent red glass eye, which stared down at me from the carved head of a rather large and somewhat incongruous carved swan. Its wings arched over me, supporting an array of gossamer curtains, shot through with silver threads which sparkled like something out of the Arabian Nights- or to put more bluntly, the most fantastic of bordellos. I raised myself up, careful to avoid the swan bed's harsh beak and peeked through the filmy curtains, just to make absolutely certain that I was alone before I ventured out into the room.

The sheer mad opulence of the room was almost enough to make me squint. It was like looking directly into the sunlight. The light from hundreds of candles flashed off of innumerable gilt decorations and crystal fixtures. In every corner, the gilt trim bloomed into entire statues of half-nude human bodies that were both fantastical and threatening, hovering high above and leering down into the room. Golden limbs entwined and twisted into poses that were at once erotic and strangely tormented- their silent faces gazing into nothing with expressions both agonized and ecstatic. It was the bedroom of Scheherazade or some other princess from the Arabian Nights, who might have told the stories of these strange figures who seemed to writhe within their perfect stillness.

The room reminded me of ChristineSue's dressing room, only it was larger and a thousand times more luxurious. There was a vanity table against one wall, which looked like something dreamt up by the most avaricious of courtesans. It was topped with pink marble and a golden jewelry box that was literally overflowing with sparkling gems, all flashing and winking in the light from the candles. ChristineSue's whit lace robe had been brought down and draped over the chair, as if she had only just stepped out and would be back in a moment. At least, I assumed that it was the same robe, but perhaps she had hundreds of them- every last one the same, and forever waiting for her, in preparation for some fantasy of hers to be played out over and over again. I shivered at the thought, and as I wrapped my arms around myself, I realized that I no longer had the Shade's coat. It wasn't the only thing that was missing.

A pier glass mirror covered an entire panel of the opposite wall. I was at once reluctant to gaze into it and curious to see if it represented yet another portal from one world to another. I gazed into it and my reflection gazed back. My hair was entirely loose now, but while I was unconscious, someone had brushed through it all. The tangles and soot were gone and dark curls brushed softly against my shoulders. My torn and filthy skirts and corset were gone. They had been replaced by pristine, white lace petticoats and a matching corset, which glimmered with tiny little crystals that had been sew into the lace edging. I wasn't sure which was more upsetting, the thought that someone had undressed me as I slept, or the thought that someone had taken the trouble to dress me up again, like some sort of living doll. I didn't look at like myself anymore, and it left me feeling confused and unsure. Once again, my cold fingers explored the aching, swollen place at the back of my head, which was all I had to remind me that I was real and my memories were not the fevered product of my imagination.

The organ still played softly in the background, breaking mysterious minor chords into strings of notes that kissed the air and then mingled into harmony within the echoes of the room. It was unlike any other music I had heard, as dissonant notes seemed to shiver and sparkle as they touched against one another, rather than grating and clashing in the ear. It was just loud enough for me to hear each perfect note, and yet soft enough the music wasn't so much heard as insinuating itself into my mind and I was struck again by the beauty and terror of Erik's power. Had he been born with a different soul, he might have soothed the world with his gift. Erik, however, didn't soothe, Erik demanded and dominated and however quiet his music might be, it still seemed to insist rather than to request. In another life, I'd have crushed my hands against my ears to blot out the sound of Erik all around me, but experience had already taught me that there was little hope of resistance. I let it all wash over me because as long as I could hear the music, I knew that Erik was busy elsewhere.

Ahead of me, my reflection continued to gaze dolefully back at me. I lifted my arm and watched the action mirrored in the glass. Yes, it was me, but it wasn't me. It was some other version of me, a person translated through ChristineSue's fantasy or Erik's madness or both. I felt an inexplicable desire to examine my image more closely, to make sure that I wasn't somehow deceived. I began to approach the glass, my longs skirts slithering behind me, making a sound of whispered breath as they brushed against the floor. I reached out and watched myself reaching back, my eyes haunted and hollow.

Then the image seemed to change and I saw myself superimposed on the figure of ChristineSue, standing silent and still in her froth of a wedding gown, locked in eternal anticipation of a bridal night with her phantom love. As I moved closer, my own image began to fade away, bit by tiny bit, until my wide-eyed desperation was replaced with ChristineSue's wide-eyed desire and there was nothing of me left at all. There was only ChristineSue's figure, frozen in a moment of breathless wanting, more perfect in her every detail than I might ever hope to be, so perfect that she could hardly be real. I was staring at a mannequin or a doll, surely.

There was a chill in the air that prickled over my bare shoulders. I gasped at the shock of it, and my heaving breath swirled around me, visible mist that floated into the air and then dissipated into nothingness. I felt my breath grow more strained, and the boning in my corset bit into my skin as I fought for air against its restrictive embrace. The mirror had faded away, and mist poured into the room as the warm atmosphere mixed with the icy winter behind the glass. A dreadful thought flickered in my mind, and I wanted to turn and run, but some inner demon pricked at my curiosity and no wisdom could dissuade me from going forward. I saw my own pale hand reaching for ChristineSue's white cheek, brushing against the hard, frozen flesh as realization warmed through my body and woke me from my stupor.

I cried out and recoiled from the corpse of ChristineSue, dressed, painted and frozen into a perfect portrait of the forever child bride.

"This is what she wanted," Erik's perfect voice sighed into my ear, endlessly soothing, terrifyingly seductive and all that nightmares could encompass, "She wanted to be a beautiful thing, without responsibility, thought, soul or sense and now she is."


	41. All That the Phantom Asks

"How could you do this?" I murmured, half to myself and half to Erik, who had draped himself artfully against the doorframe, the better to display his chiseled body, "You were supposed to love them."

"Indeed, but loving is little better than torture when you are not loved in return," Erik replied casually, as though we were making small talk over tea and pastry, rather than participating in a grisly freak show. As he finished speaking, he turned and walked back into the other room from which he come, slowly, and silently, with all the grace of a panther- a panther in tight trousers.

I had a feeling that I was meant to follow him, and although I was reluctant to do anything to please Erik, I didn't care to hang around in a bedroom with a dead woman for décor. I took a moment to cover myself with ChristineSue's white robe. She wouldn't be needing it now and I didn't want to face Erik with bare shoulders. I tied the sash tightly at my waist and doubled the knot, just to make certain that no one would be removing it from me without a fight. I wasn't precisely sure what Erik had in mind, and I didn't want to flatter myself but when someone goes to all the trouble of removing one's clothing while one is unconscious, it's hard not to draw certain conclusions.

Beyond the door, Erik's home- where else could we be- opened into a space the size of a ballroom, with pier glass mirrors that stretched from the floor to the ceiling paneled into the walls. At the far side of the space, a set of glass doors opened out onto a balcony, but I could not make out anything in the blackness beyond it. We had to be somewhere in the fifth cellar, far below the ground, so perhaps Erik's house opened onto the lake. House was perhaps the wrong word, because the simple house had been either abandoned or perhaps only expanded into something that resembled the palatial imaginings of a demented child.

The room was filled with hundreds of models, each one representing the set for an opera, with little wax figures for characters that could be moved and arranged according to a spoiled whim- in other words, Erik was presumably spending his spare time playing with dolls. To my left, Erik had covered up the wall in papers and drawings, which were gummed onto the mirrors or tucked into the gilt trimmings. Erik himself was seated at an organ, whose pipes covered the entire wall between this room and the bedroom. No wonder I had heard music, it should have been loud enough to wake the dead. High above us, the opera house itself should have been trembling with the vibrations, but that clearly wasn't going to happen. It was as if the whole thing was really all for show, and the pipes a mere decoration. Some other mechanism was making the music.

I scanned the room carefully, looking for evidence of the manuscript, but I didn't have to look far. While Erik fiddled with his organ, I began to explore the room, trying not to look directly at the one thing I had been seeking. If Erik wanted to stop me, he had ample opportunity but for the time being, he was more interest in other things. To the accompaniment of Erik's atonal meandering over the keys, I wandered through the doll's opera houses. I recognized _Faust_, complete with a tiny little tenor, Marguerite with flaxen braids and a devil in red. In _L'Africaine,_ a rather pale looking tribal maid waited under a palm tree for her lover. The little waxen hero had been dropped off the stage to one side but I was too timid to restore him to his place. Further away, I saw the set for the gala, with its ridiculous golden cupids and gauze. The figure of the leading soprano must have broken, because her head had been snapped right off and was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the cast had been swept onto the floor, where they lay in a sad little heap of red and yellow. Perhaps Erik had been unhappy with the gala after all, very unhappy so it would seem.

I passed by dioramas of _Le Prophète_ and _Le Roi de Lahore_, where the little characters stood stiffly in their little places, as if ready and waiting to go on with the show. At last I came to _Don Juan Triumphant_, the fiasco which couldn't have happened more than some hours ago, even if it already felt like a lifetime ago. The heroine and Don Juan were nowhere to be seen. The chorus was lined up to one side of the box and, in the center, there was a blob of wax where a figure had been melted down into a congealed little puddle of color. Erik must have held a candle to the figure until it was entirely shriveled away. I was careful to face away from Erik, so that he wouldn't see what I was doing. I bent my head down, by my eyes were not focused on the ground or at Erik's toys. This was as close as I could get to the wall, the wall that Erik had once complained was covered with papers. Indeed, it was covered in papers- it was covered with the pages of the manuscript for _The Phantom of the Opera_. I had found the manuscript, now it only remained to find some way to tell the others so that we could end this nightmare.

My ears pricked up at the sound of a cadence in the organ music. Erik was almost finished playing. I hurriedly slipped across the room, hoping to look somewhat less suspicious. Had Erik been wearing a mask, this would have been the perfect time to tear it off his face, because the resulting scene would surely have kept him occupied for the next several hours. He would have pranced around and ranted while I cowered and cried, leaving ample time for someone to walk in and remove the manuscript page by page, assuming he didn't just throttle me on the spot. However, I had a sinking feeling that if Erik wanted me dead, he'd have killed me already. He'd had plenty of chances. I was alive because Erik wanted me alive, and hopefully that would buy me enough time to finish what we had started.

In the meantime… "Where is Meg?" I asked, as Erik stood and turned to me, "What have you done with her?"

"Which Meg?" Erik replied innocently, "There are quite a few wandering about these days."

"You know perfectly well which one," I snapped back, and quickly regretted it as Erik's body stiffened with anger, "My friend," I continued, softening my tone, "The one who's missing an eye. I've been worried sick about her."

"Oh she's quite safe and snug down here with me," Erik practically purred, "Such a lucky thing that I found her before anyone else did."

"Please tell me where she is," I pleaded.

"Or you'll do anything?" asked Erik and something in his tone put my nerves on edge, "No, I don't think that's your style, Carlotta. You're not like the others, are you? You think very carefully about the bargains you make."

Erik began to approach me, but this time I was determined to hold my ground. "I don't understand what you mean," I answered coldly.

"Christine Daaé accepted everything I offered her with no thought whatsoever for the consequences. She didn't care if I pushed another singer out of the way or if my heart was breaking for her night after night. She was young and wrapped up in her own desires- the desire to please her dead father and then her desire for that young pup," Erik's eyes were wild, "She never even acknowledged that I have given her a gift, not so much as a 'thank you.'

"And then there was the new one, the new Christine with her brunette curls and her adolescent charms with the single-mindedness of a toddler. Oh she loved and worshipped me to the bitter end, loved and worshipped me for the things she thought I could give her. She thought I could make her into an opera star, an opera star with that untrained pipsqueak of a voice, as if opera is nothing but a pretty dress and a load of hype. I was supposed to spew my hatred at all the world, then giggle and moo at her amusing foolishness and innocence. It didn't matter what I did or said to her, there she was, staring at me with her child's eyes, waiting for me to melt into a lovesick imbecile, all for the sake of her supposed perfections. She took everything I offered like the grasping, greedy little thing she was and then held out her hands for more, and called it love!"

"She was only a girl," I began weakly, "She couldn't have known…"

"Oh, couldn't she?" Erik smiled a predatory smile, "You knew. I offered you the world and you threw it back in my face, over and over again. I tried to give you the gala, but you wouldn't accept it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I insisted, "The manager's swore that you forced them to star your new Christine."

"Oh indeed, just as forced them to make certain that you were the understudy, just in case my brunette infant couldn't go on. I spent hours coaching her and tearing her confidence into shreds, to make certain that she wouldn't dare open her mouth to sing, and what do you do? Do you make the gala into your own triumph, like Christine Daae herself would have done? Like Christine Daaé herself has done, a million times over, every time our story is played out? No. Not you."

"I'm a diva in my own right. I don't need your help to triumph at the Paris Opera. It's not the same thing."

"In this world, my dear, it is exactly the same thing. You cannot be the diva at my opera house without my help and I tried to help you, but you refused me. All the same, I left you a rose because your singing pleased me but you wouldn't accept that either. You even went so far as to give it to another man."

"Joseph Buquet," I murmured.

"Yes, indeed, but Joseph Buquet won't be coming between us again. Don't feel too guilty, I should have killed him long before. It was a bit of an oversight on my part, but thanks to you, it's been corrected."

I gazed back at Erik angrily, and said nothing. There was nothing remotely civil that I could say. I did my best to channel my feelings into anger, because the only other option was tears.

"Oh yes, do suppress that pretty rage. I've seen that expression before. I gave you _Don Juan Triumphant_, and you sat off in a corner during every rehearsal, while our tone-deaf terror toddled around the stage, attempting to sing. Never mind that even when we were enemies, I could not deny the beauty of your voice, you refused to make so much as peep. I couldn't make my little song vulture stop warbling while the perfect nightingale refused to sing for me at all. I moved mountains to put you on that stage, singing my music with a voice that would make heavenly choirs die from jealousy and still you resist and avoid me and run off with my pathetic apprentice, with his ordinary face!"

"I wouldn't take anything from anyone at that price!" I cried back, "Singing the lead in an opera isn't worth hurting people or killing them. If that's what it means to be the leading lady in this place, then I don't want it!"

"And you don't want me, even knowing that everything I've done, I have done for you!" Erik dropped to his knees and caught my hands, "If you loved me, I could give you anything you wanted, but what does that matter when you don't love me? Very well, give me your hatred as long as your give me yourself as well!"


	42. Oh horror, horror, horror

**Author's Note- Many thanks to all who are still reading for your amazing patience. I've been busy with my singing, among other things and it's been difficult to keep my inspiration flowing. I tend to get my better ideas when I've already written several pages heading in a different direction. Ultimately, I decided that this chapter needed a complete rewrite, and after the third re-drafting, I think I'm happy. I do intend to complete the draft of my story on FFN for those who are reading and after that, it's up in the air as to whether I will take it down and repost the next version or if it will have a new home on LJ or another archive. Regardless, I do intend to keep the story available and I'll be sure that readers know where they can find and enjoy it. **

I'm sure that I must have cried out. There was only one word running through my head over and over: no. No, no, no, Erik was not laying his affections, and along with them, the responsibility for everything he had done, at my feet. It was incomprehensible. I tore away from his grasp and ran, without really knowing where I could go.

I couldn't run back to the swan bedroom, where ChristineSue's corpse still waited in her bridal dress. Besides, I'd only find myself trapped in a bedroom with a homicidal sex maniac and I wasn't sure which quality I found the more unpleasant. I had no doubt that there were other doors, both visible and secret, but I had no way to find the ones that were hidden and I wasn't quite sure how to open the ones that weren't. Apparently, Erik wasn't fond of doorknobs, or perhaps he could make the doors open at his word. There was only one direction to go, towards the balcony and the lake. I wasn't precisely sure what I'd do when I got there, but anything was better than my current situation.

I could feel the tears flowing again, and quietly cursed myself for being overemotional, out of control and entirely useless. I feared that I would fail MegSue and the others just as I had failed Joseph Buquet, ChristineSue and… and I hated to think of it… and the Shade. All the same, you try to be anything but hysterical under similar circumstances. It's no wonder poor Christine Daae acted so strangely for so long, just imagine the state she must have been in after being kidnapped by a lunatic admirer!

I didn't look back to see if Erik was pursuing me. I assumed that he most likely was, since it seemed like the sort of thing he'd taken to doing lately. Either that or the floor was about to give way, and I'd find myself coming to a complex and poetic end at best, and a ridiculously stupid and incomprehensible end at worst. Either way, I wouldn't have to worry about an eternity of loneliness, misery and guilt after Leroux read the manuscript, or an eternity of loneliness, misery and guilt if he did not. Altogther, I'd call it a win-win situation, in a sick and depressing sort of way.

I reached the balcony, and then stopped dead in my tracks. The lake, or what I can only assume to have been the lake, stretched out before me, an expanse too vast for me to have swum it. The surface was entirely covered by mist, that obscured the water, and made it impossible to tell what might be going on down. I couldn't even tell where the shore ended and the lake began. Even more amazing, lighted candelabra had risen out of the mist, although I was at a loss to imagine how it had been accomplished. Even with an army of slaves to attend to things, how on earth would they reach them and what about the damp? The candles flickered as I stood there, like a fool, with my mouth hanging agape.

The inexplicably convenient entrance to the lair was gone. In its place, I could just make out an inexplicably convenient exit from the lair in the form of a tunnel where the lake's water diverted into a canal. In order to make an inexplicably convenient exit, one would need an inexplicably convenient boat. In point of fact, there might very well have been an entire fleet of inexplicably convenient boats moored up on the lake's shore, but how on earth anyone was to find them in all that mist was yet another mystery to be solved. You would think that a genius architect could have come up with something a little less silly.

On the very far side of the lake, I could see a large open area that was closed off with a large iron grate. It was hard to make out through the mist and the endless, irritating flickering of thousands of candles, but slowly, I began to make out shapes. Some of them were the ubiquitous Sues, clad in black robes so that Erik need not bother distinguishing one from another, but that wasn't all. There was another figure- a small, disheveled figure in white. I could just make out arms chained to the grating above its head, which drooped down, obscuring its face. It sagged against the cold iron, with no strength left in its limbs. I knew immediately who it was.

"Meg!!" I shouted at the top of my voice, and since I am an opera singer, my shouting is very loud indeed, but the figure made no motion. I called out to her again, rattling off a litany of the usual sorts of things one says in a situation like this, shrieking in ever more strident tones for her to make some sign that she was alright, but no sign was made. There wasn't so much as a tilt of the head or the heaving of a breath.

I ran to my left, where stone stair led down towards the lake, but as I made my way down them, they seemed to disappear into the mist without actually touching the shore. I looked down, but couldn't see where the mist ended and the ground began. I wondered if one was expected to catapult oneself from one candelabrum to the next like some sort of demented monkey. I ran back up the stairs to try the other side and had no better luck. There was no way to reach the lake much less the other side.

Erik had not bothered to follow me. He must have known that there was no way to escape, not if one was wearing skirts and a corset instead of an animal skin and a feral expression, at any rate. The only way to go was back into Erik's house, or palace or demented bordello or whatever it was that he had come up with and planted on the lakeshore. There might well be other options, but I had no hope of finding them, not without a lot of time and certainly not in my current state of mind. Still, I lingered on the balcony, desperately watching for any sign of life from the sad, little figure that Erik had chained up over on the far side of the lake. The silent movement of Erik's black-robed minions made the dark stones look as if they were pulsing with something exceedingly unpleasant. I wondered why they couldn't be bothered to do something about Erik's poor little victim and cursed them for not caring. Regardless of which side she was on now, MegSue had been one of them and for all they knew, they would be sharing her fate, or worse, ChristineSue's at Erik's whim. My grief and terror were being replaced by anger, and I did nothing to resist the warm wave of hatred and rage that tingled in my fingers and toes.

I turned and stormed back into the lair, well, as much as one can storm at a run. It isn't as if I was going to be intimidating anyone with my unpinned hair and questionable attire. I saw Erik out of the corner of my eye, still waiting at the other end of the room, and still sporting the same supercilious expression that I had seen every other time he thought he was going to have his way- but this time I was damned if he was going to win. If MegSue was dead, then there was no reason not to put an end to our story that very instant and nothing for me to do beyond making one, final effort to give Erik exactly what he deserved.

Luckily for me, all of Erik's little dollhouses were blocking his path, but not mine. That's what he gets for being that strange. There was little that I would have put past Erik and his tricks, but playing with dolls would have been on that list. I would never have believed it of him if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. You would have thought that he had better things to do. All the same, I had to bless Erik's madness because it bought me time. He tried to pursue me, threading his way between his dioramas, but there were too many of them and he ended by crashing into Don Juan Triumphant. Erik paused to survey the damage, just as I reached the far wall, where the pages of the original manuscript were pinned up in plain view. I began tearing pages as quickly as I could, gathering them into a disorganized pile in my arms. I wondered if Leroux's powers included making pages fly into their proper order because figuring out which was which would have taken more time than any of us had.

"What do you think you're doing?!?!" Erik shouted as he pushed Don Juan Triumphant out of his way and began to stalk menacingly in my general direction.

I looked him in the eye, took a deep breath and began to read from a page of the manuscript. It was a page from the middle of the book, when Christine and Raoul have fled to the roofs and are talking by Apollo's Lyre. Christine was telling Raoul about her encounter with Erik, when she tore the mask from his face.

"_Suddenly, I felt a need to see beneath the mask_…" I read.

Erik howled with rage and rushed toward me. I darted away to one side and continued, "_I wanted to know the __**face**__ of the voice_…"

"No!" cried Erik, "Be silent if you value…" and he trailed off because what was left for me to value? My life? Or perhaps I should say, my existence in this horror show that Erik had concocted, no, I didn't much care for that at all.

Erik lunged at me again. I ran behind the model of the gala, losing some pages in the process, but there was nothing to done about it now. Maybe I could collect them later on, or maybe someone else would- the Persian or Leroux, perhaps. I fumbled to find my place, "Swiftly my fingers tore away the mask…" I read, staring down at the page at Erik growled with rage.

With a sudden movement, Erik flung his dolls out of the way. The crash as the little table hit the floor and broke into pieces from the impact startled me and I jumped back. Erik began to step forward, crushing a wax figurine under foot. He was staring into my face with a cold, dead gleam in his blue eyes that would mean the end of me, just as soon as he reached. I looked him in the eye and spoke the next words, "_Oh, horror, horror, horror!"_

Somewhere, from deep within the stone foundations of the Palais Garnier, the words reverberated, no louder than the sound of breath, oh horror, horror, horror…

Erik cried out as though I had struck him, a superhuman cry of rage and grief that he had uttered once before, when his mask was torn from his face but there was something else in that cry as well, a kind of agony. His body twisted and contorted, as he struggled with a force that I could neither see nor understand. He covered his face with his hands and groaned, his chest heaving as he gasped for air in the face of some torment I could not begin to fathom. I stood, petrified and fascinated, papers gently slipping from my fingers and fluttered to the floor around me. At last, the unseen force subsided and Erik grew still, crumpled over with one hand still covering part of his face, "Oh horror… horror… horror…" he whispered, as I gazed at him in silent amazement.


	43. Erik in the Flesh

Hunched over, hovering as if in the process of either crumpling to the floor or preparing to spring up for the next attack, Erik's malignantly yellow eyes watched me through long, ivory fingers, covered in skin so delicate that it was nearly translucent. I could almost see the blood pounding in his veins. Erik had truly been unmasked and he did not look at all pleased about it, I daresay he was not pleased at all. "You women," he spat bitterly, "Are so _inquisitive_."

The last of the manuscript slid from my fingers, making an audible swish as they struck the floor and scattered around me. My hands had gone completely limp, and I was at a loss to control them, but I still had my mind and my voice entirely at my own disposal. "Erik?" I murmured, "Is it really you?"

Erik didn't speak, but he moved. His body rose up, straightening and stretching until he towered over me, his long lean frame looking much like something from a child's nightmares. His nose was a flattened hole, flesh stretched over bone without cartilage or shape and his eyes glowed in sunken black sockets. I wondered silently how long he must have been starved to have become so thin, and how long he had gone with sunlight to be so pale and sickly and what strength of mind he must have possessed to survive anyway. I remembered the first visit to Erik's lair, and how similar he and the Shade really were. If not for the Shade's profusion of garments, it would have been easy enough to see- the nimble hands and the grace of movement- if not for the lack of a nose and a certain amount of sanity, they might have been the same person, living the same life. I thought about the last time I had gazed at a man unmasked before me, and resolved not to make the same mistake I had made then. This time, I would not cringe and hesitate. This time, I knew exactly what to do.

I threw myself into Erik's arms, crying "Oh thank God it's really you! I thought you were one of them!"

Erik held me gingerly, as if he wasn't sure what to do with me. All the sexual confidence that he had possessed in his handsome body had suddenly faded now that he was himself again. Tentatively, he patted me on the shoulder, "Who exactly might they be, my dear?" He didn't sound like he was entirely convinced of my sincerity, but there was something in his voice that sounded like it wanted to be convinced. Now that I was close to him, I could smell the musty odor that Christine Daaé had described, the odor of the grave. She had meant it quite literally, it was dry, dusty, enclosed odor of the Daaé tomb mixed with the scent of old earth and incense. I wondered if it was the natural result of living underground, like a man entombed, or if it was a sign of a lifetime of ill health.

"Why, the MarySues of course!" I answered. "They're the ones who are responsible for all of this. I thought sure they had murdered you and replaced you with some sort of twisted version of a pre-pubescent girl's fantasy lover." Or possibly some demented version of a lonely man with no self-esteem's pathetic wish-fulfillment, take your pick.

Erik's embrace became somewhat less avuncular, now that he felt himself back in control of the situation. I felt his hand trail down my side a little too familiarly, but I did my best to pretend like I was too overwrought to notice it. If I had been playing the role properly, my eyes would have been closed and delicately dewed with tears. Unfortunately, dumb as a brick was not in my repertoire, so my eyes were wide open and fixed on the scattered pages of the manuscript, one of which appeared to be quietly slipping away entirely of it's own volition.

"You needn't worry about the MarySues," was Erik actually chortling? I think he was. "They are quite entirely under my control. They are my subjects, who do my bidding and all for love of me. You should consider yourself quite lucky, they'd all kill to be in your shoes right now." Then he added, "Well, they'd kill you, that is."

I decidedly to let that one go, in light of the fact that Erik was dangerously insane, and in light of the fact that my one and only proven weapon against him was, apparently, walking away page by page. Well, obviously, the manuscript hadn't moved on its own. On closer inspection, I could see what was happening. It was the rats.

Well, the rats have to be somewhere. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of the rat catcher. For all I knew, Erik had killed him as well, for no reason other than to prove that he could. The cellars were always full of rats, and no one but the rat catcher had been able to control them. I wondered who was controlling them now, as they slipped away with the manuscript, page by page. I had to fight back the urge to chase after them, or to desperately gather up whatever pages still remained, in the hopes that it might be enough. The pages I had already lost were most likely long gone. Was this another masterstroke of Erik's or was another MarySue about to emerge? I reminded myself that whatever it was, I did not have any power to do anything about it right now. If I could only behave myself well enough to remain alive and, somewhat, free, I could at least point Leroux and the Persian in the right direction, when and if they ever bothered to turn up.

"Erik," I said earnestly, drawing back to look him in the eye, "We have to get out of here. There's no telling what the MarySues will do in order to get to you."

"Leave? Why should we leave?" Erik asked amiably. "We have everything we need right here and an army of willing servants to bring us everything we lack. The opera house is entirely mine, so we'll have music up there whenever we wish. You will sing for me down here, and up there as well, if you like. At last, we have the happy ending that we've always deserved, instead of being left to weep and rot while the young lovers scamper off with all the happiness. If we leave, we'll only end up back in the same wretched story, filled with the same wretched purple prose and lurid Persian nonsense, thinking we were better off not existing at all. Villains and heroes are really a matter of perspective, after all, why should we run away when the story is finally being told from our perspective?"

"I'm hardly in the story at all," I insisted, "I can't be the villain."

"Talk to that great gathering of nitwits out there," Erik answered, "In their eyes, you're a spoiled, vicious, undeserving bitch who would do anything to sabotage a new, younger rival."

"There is nothing of the kind in Leroux!" I sniffed, feeling the opera diva coming to the forefront.

"As I said, my dear, it's all a matter of perspective," Erik smiled, "But think how much fun it will be when I present you to them as my chosen bride, the one who will stand beside me as I rule my new kingdom!"

How much fun? Not fun at all for me, I thought angrily. However, I was certain that Erik would be having himself quite the time of his life. My glance shifted to the floor again, noticing that the number of manuscript pages had decreased considerably. Erik followed my gaze. "Ah yes," he added nonchalantly, "I nearly forgot. Now where is that page…" With a graceful motion of his entire body, his arm swept down across the floor, effortlessly gathering a handful of pages. He sorted through them, making a great show of considering each one before dismissing it and tossing it onto the floor, "Ah, here we are, my dear, just the thing!" He cleared his throat and began to read, "_I worked the stone, and we jumped into the house which Erik had built himself in the double case of the foundation-walls of the Opera_…" Erik looked at me expectantly, but I couldn't recognize the passage, he shrugged and read more, "_My alarm, therefore, was great when I saw that the room into which M. le Vicomte de Chagny and I had dropped was an exact copy of the torture-chamber of the rosy hours of Mazenderan_."

"The Persian," I muttered, more to myself than to Erik, "When he falls into the torture chamber."

"Precisely," Erik replied, "And here we are, just as it says on the page." Erik tapped on a panel in the wall, which slid back to reveal a two way mirror the looked into Erik's famous torture chamber, not the tricky hall of mirrors I had already seen, but the true torture chamber, complete with the iron tree and the Punjab lasso. The light was dim, but I could make out the figures of two men, exploring the room in search of a way out.

"It's just my little way of making sure that you aren't playing another of your little games," said Erik.

Well, I thought, and not without a certain amount of weary resignation, at least now I know where the Persian's got to.


	44. Erik's Little Games

When I pressed my nose right up to the glass, I could just make out the Persian's aquiline features in silhouette. The other man was in shadow and difficult to make out. I tried to apply logic, as much logic as anyone can apply while squinting and contorting about in such a manner that, well, I certainly hoped that the Persian couldn't see me in this attitude. Sadly, logic had failed me more than once already and instinct, well, I'll get to instinct in a moment.

If Gaston Leroux's manuscript was coming literally to pass when it was read aloud, then the second man would have to have been Raoul. That's what it said on the page, and it would not have been all that difficult for Erik to open up a trap door under Raoul's feet at any time he pleased. Raoul was heroic, but not terribly bright about those sorts of things. It wasn't at all unreasonable to assume that Erik had captured Raoul and that somewhere, there was a very confused angry mob wandering around. On the whole, I wasn't sure that gathering up an angry mob had been the best idea Raoul had come up with so far. It was really too bad that his ingenious plane wouldn't fly underground.

If Erik was just playing games with me, pretending to read the manuscript when in reality he had trapped the Persian some time ago, then the second man would have to be Leroux. After all, they'd come down here together through whatever back doors the two of them knew about. If they'd miscalculated somehow, then surely they both would have fallen into the trap together. I wasn't sure precisely what Erik would make of Leroux, although I was certain that if he found out about him, then we were all utterly sunk. That alone was reason to believe that Leroux was still at large somewhere in Erik's domain.

Then there was the last possibility, the one that both my instincts and my wretched hopes were insisting was the correct guess, but my instincts had also been mistaken on more than one recent occasion. If reading the manuscript caused events to happen that were in the spirit of the original story without necessarily being a precise rendering of the text, then there was only one other person who could be in the torture chamber. I hadn't seen the Shade die, after all. His death was only probable, exceedingly probable, given the lack of any escape from the trap and the fact that only a fish could have avoided drowning. I told myself that it wasn't the Shade, but telling myself wasn't the same thing as actually making myself believe it.

Erik knew the answer. He had to know but I didn't dare ask him, for fear of revealing some buried little piece of information that he didn't already know. Erik was too clever, far more clever than I. He wasn't fooled by my "little games" but as long as he got his way in the end, he didn't care. He was watching me squirm and no doubt enjoying every minute of it. I couldn't wait around forever, hoping that the second man would oblige me by wandering into view. I had to signal them somehow. It was risky, but at this point, what wasn't? I knocked on the glass.

The Persian heard me. I saw him turn and I could have sworn he was saying something. Both men started to move, and just as the second was about to step into the shadows, Erik caught me by the arm and pulled me away from the glass.

"I think that's quite enough entertainment for now, my dear. These kinds of excitements aren't suitable for a lady's delicate constitution."

I could have pointed out that once upon a time, he had designed these kinds of excitements specifically for a particular lady and clearly her constitution hadn't suffered in the least. I could also have said that after everything I had already been through, if my constitution was going to give out, it would have done so already. I even had several specific examples where Erik had personally assaulted my constitution and I was still standing, wasn't I? Did I mention any of this? Of course not, because I was too busy standing there with my mouth agape, and my mind in agony and my heart all aflutter, and if I muttered anything, it was along the lines of "But…." Not the most scathing of retorts and hardly likely to do me any good.

I turned back to the glass, or tried to, but Erik had one hand firmly gripping my arm and with the other he made a wave which brought a curtain down over the glass. I looked at Erik and looked back at the heavy velvet curtain. In fact, I think I may have done that several times. It was so unbelievable and so very frustrating. In a remote corner of my mind, the voice of common sense insisted that if Erik really had _that_ card in his hand, he'd have played it openly. He wouldn't be so coy, unless he had to be, would he? For all I knew, the second man was a mannequin or a stagehand or another propped up corpse. It wasn't completely outside the realms of possibility, not with Erik, but that was the trouble with Erik. Anyone else would show his winning cards and be done with it, but not Erik. Erik would prolong the exquisite torment until the very end, because that was what he enjoyed. It wasn't enough to rape Christine outright; he wanted to manipulate her until she gave in of her own free will, if only to put an end to the ghastly anticipation.

"Now that everything is settled, and you're going to be my wife, I think it's time you started dressing appropriately, don't you?"

I gazed back, utterly dumbfounded. What on earth was he talking about?

"A proper wife doesn't spend her time running around in her dressing gown."

Oh, that.

"Antoinette!"

For a moment, I wondered if yet another odd character was about to turn up, and one did, but not a new one. GirySue appeared at the other end of the hall, rustling in her black silk as she dropped a deep curtsey. "Erik!" she sighed, her blue eyes gazing up at him rapturously through sooty lashes. I could have sworn she was about to open her arms and rush to him, but Erik had other plans in mind.

"Take Carlotta back to her room and help her change. The time has come to present my bride to my beloved minions."

"But I thought…" she began, but the words died on her lips.

Erik spoke so sharply, that GirySue, Antoinette, stopped in her tracks, "Your place is not to think. Your place is to obey my orders and serve my plot. Now do as I've told you!"

Antoinette's face crumpled. Up until that moment, her expression had always been fixed, cold and hard and immobile. Now, every muscle relaxed and fell, drawing her eyes and her brows into an expression of such utter despair that I found myself feeling pity for her, even after all that she'd done.

Erik drew me forward, handing me over to Antoinette, whose despair was quickly turning into a kind of loathing that made me want to flinch away from her touch. I followed her meekly, glancing back at Erik, who smiled and began to walk away, leaving me to handle the angry raven of a woman on my own.


	45. Through a Glass Darkly

Antoinette Giry swished along the hallway with the kind of purposeful rustle of skirts that cannot be achieved without diligent practice, or at least the benefit of an author with an excessive fondness for romantic prose involving a great many adjectives. Her black silks skirts swirled like an angry storm and shuddered to think what torrents of emotion or lightning flashes of rage might be forthcoming. I trotted behind her quite meekly, trying to hold my lacy nothing of a dressing gown closed. It was a hopeless proposition and at last I decided that speed was preferable to modesty. I left the white lace to froth and flap where it would, so that I could keep up.

I had been formulating a sort of brilliant plan where I would convince Antoinette that Erik had betrayed her and she would of course immediately see the wisdom of my argument and would immediately become my ally. Looking at the tense set of her shoulders under her perfectly fitted black silk, I had second thoughts. I tried to speed up my pace, so that I could walk beside her, but she seemed to sense my intentions and remained a few steps ahead of me, never directing so much as a glance in my direction. I thought about trying to run, but something told me that it would be futile. I would find myself running in circles and incurring Erik's displeasure, and it was a risk I couldn't take. If I wanted to be able to act later, then I had to let Erik think that he had won definitively- or at least that I was out of cunning plans. Antoinette Giry knew it. I had a bad feeling that she knew everything, but hadn't quite decided what to do about it. As much as she adored Erik, I wasn't entirely convinced that she wasn't considering murdering me outright, whether he desired it or not.

At last we reached the door to the bedroom, which I wouldn't even have recognized had Antoinette not suddenly turned to fling it open. She pulled with such force that the door swung all the way out and struck the wall with a sharp clap, leaving a dent in the gilt woodwork. The shock of it made me jump, and once again, I wondered if I shouldn't try to run as fast as I could. If I'd had doubts over who was the most dangerous to my well being at this moment, I had them no longer. Antoinette snapped her head around to shoot me the look of a vicious animal. Fire crackled in her blue eyes and I was struck by how much like Erik she was. I wondered what her plot had been, back in her own world, but there was no time to dwell on it. Without thinking, I lowered my eyes to avoid her glare and stepped meekly into the room. She followed me, slowly and deliberately while I tried to think of something, anything, to say to her. I was just about to make an attempt, when the sharp sound of the door being slammed shut again made me spin around to face her again.

I had almost expected to find myself left alone to fend for myself. It seemed like the most reasonable thing to do given Antoinette Giry's feelings, but since when had she ever been reasonable. She stood there, frozen in place, not so much as a twitch or a blink to betray that she was a human being, save for the tension in her lips that was turning them whiter and whiter. Looking at her, it occurred to me that in a different dress and with a smile on her face, she would have been strikingly beautiful. The stark color and high neckline of her dress was exactly the wrong choice for her kind of pale, flaxen haired beauty and her elaborately braided, but severe hairstyle added a false harshness to her face. Was this her choice, or was it Erik's? Again, I tried and failed to speak.

Antoinette stalked past me, not troubling herself to look at me. There was an elaborately decorated wooden chest by the wall, which she opened, pulling out something white and frilly which she flung in my direction without looking at me. I caught it with an effort, already knowing what it had to be and wishing that I had the heart to say something arch about it. My first thought was that Erik was a pervert with a major bridal fetish, my second thought was that if this was the same dress in which ChristineSue had been embalmed, I was probably going to sick right there where I stood. I looked back to the mirror where ChristineSue had stood in her diorama of death, but there was nothing but a mirror reflecting back my own gaze. ChristineSue was gone. I looked back to Antoinette for an answer and she smiled wryly, but it was neither a pretty smile nor a happy one. It was a grimace of anger, hatred despair and a sick, gloating smugness. "He was finished with her."

She meant that soon enough, Erik would be finished with me as well and I'd likely meet the same fate- from lover to victim to trophy to discarded entirely. I didn't speak, because there was nothing to say. Antoinette however, wasn't finished.

"Don't you want to say something to me? I've seen you working it out in your head, how you'll convince me to help you. Go ahead. You might as well try. It isn't as if you have any other choices left." Antoinette began to approach me, and I backed away from her. On the whole, I'd rather have embraced Erik in the altogether than to let her get close enough to touch me. I said nothing.

"Stop acting like a spoiled child. I'm not here to murder you, Erik would not be pleased with me if I did and he has the power to bring you back, if he so chooses. All, the same, I can't say that I wouldn't like to be rid of you."

I stilled myself and stared back at Antoinette, as angrily as she had stared at me. We stood almost nose to nose.

"You'll never get your dress fastened properly if you don't let me help you. I wonder how Erik will take it when he sees how reluctant you are to comply with his wishes."

Even her voice made my skin crawl, but I didn't have much choice. I silently cursed whoever it was that had decided to make women's clothing so dashed complicated. As she helped me to dress, Antoinette continued to talk.

"I think your only choice is to leave," she said, "Not to leave here, mind you, but to leave this story entirely. That's the only way to truly escape. Once you're in another story, no one here will have any power over you."

"And I suppose that you know a way to do that?" I ventured.

"I know many things. I know that in this narrative, mirrors are a portal from one world to the next. I came here through a mirror, as did you little ballerina friend and Erik's former love and all of the others. I know how it's done, and I can show you."

"You mean that I could escape through a mirror at any time?" I asked, not entirely believing what I was hearing.

"Oh no, not just any mirror," she replied, "Most of the mirrors will only take you from one world within this story to another. There is only one mirror that can take you out of the story, and you cannot simply walk through it. You must break it, in order to step through."

"Meaning?" I asked.

"Meaning that you only have one chance, once it's been broken. You might come back to _The Phantom of the Opera_ through another story, but never to this version of it. Once you've gone through, there is no way to come back."

"Then, I cannot leave," I replied, "I cannot leave everyone else behind."

"There is nothing you can do for the others. The best you can hope for is to save yourself. Do you really want to find out what Erik has planned for you? Or would you rather go back to being a secondary character, going through the motions of your role in the story and forever longing for what once was?"

"Do you really think that I would leave the others to that same fate? What do you take me for?" I turned on her, angrily.

"I'll bring your little ballerina friend, but in return you must promise to go." Her voice was cold as ice. "You don't have much time to make up your mind. She won't last much longer where she is, and Erik certainly won't be setting her free for your sake."

"I promise you that I'll leave, if you show me the way, but I cannot leave the Persian and- I cannot leave the men in the torture chamber to Erik's tender mercy!"

"The torture chamber is none of your concern. There is nothing you can do for them. If you plead for their lives, Erik will murder them for jealousy. If you do not, Erik will kill them for sport. If you leave, he will kill them for revenge and if you stay, he will kill them for no reason at all. You'd do better to pretend you never saw them. Wipe them out of your mind."

"But perhaps you could…"

"I cannot. I think it will be best if I lock the door until I get back, just in case you have any other clever ideas. Erik won't care one way or the other about the little ballerina, there's hardly a shortage of them around here. I'll bring you both to the mirror and you will leave here forever and Erik will turn to me for comfort, as he promised when he lost his new Christine."

"You mean when he killed her." I said without thinking.

"He had no choice. She made him do it."

I remembered Erik telling me that if I struggled, I would make him break my arm. A person isn't forced into killing someone or hurting them, not like that. Erik did these things because he wanted to.

Antoinette must have seen the incredulous look on my face, which I'll admit that I hadn't troubled myself to hide, although I had held my tongue. "You don't understand him. He's an artist, a genius! A man like that is not meant to be pestered by a child's demands for attention and toys. He must be able to create, and I can help him. It will be different with me, you see. I understand him as no one else can. I truly love him for himself. I can care for him and protect him, so that he'll never again be forced to lash out against a cruel world!" She held her head high and gazed down on me triumphantly as I shrank into my billowing white dress and controlled my expression. Feeling that her point was made, she left the room in a rustle of black, and I heard the click of the latch as she locked me in, just as she'd said she would.

I sighed and wondered again what magic allure Erik possessed. Antoinette had watched Erik deceive and murder two Christines. She was willing to help him hold me against my will and to callously leave the Persian and… someone else… to die. Without realizing it, I had begun to pace around the room. If only she had left the door unlocked, I might have slipped out and found the torture chamber. I tried the handle, just in case, but it didn't budge. Antoinette had planned it all out. She could bargain with MegSue's life in order to be rid of me, and then she could have a clear shot at Erik. Erik would probably have something to say about that. There was no way that he was going to smile sweetly and settle down with Antoinette just because she wished it.

I wandered back across the room, catching sight of my reflection out of the corner of my eye. In the wedding gown and veil, I was nothing more than a flash of white. I turned to examine my reflection for a moment, to meditate on the ridiculousness of it all. There I was- a blur of nebulous white, too much white, in fact. There was something else in the mirror, something white and transparent. The image was fuzzy at first, too indistinct to see what it was, but it began to strengthen and resolve itself into a second white figure reflected in the glass, a figure that shimmered with its own internal light. The apparition grew clear, and I saw a delicate white foot extend to step out of the glass, not stepping onto the floor, but into the air a foot above the carpet, slowing approaching me with it's glimmering arms extending towards me in a gesture that could have been greeting or imploring.

"But… you're dead!" I gasped, drawing back.

"Canon never dies," replied the ghost of the real Christine Daaé.


	46. Beyond the Veil

I shivered, realizing suddenly that the room had become very cold. Christine's image shimmered and trembled, a mist rising from her glowing form as she floated on the air. Her figure was etched in translucent white, save for her eyes, which were clear, silver, piercing and fixed on me. I reached out to her, and she stretched out a ghostly hand in turn but as her fingers brushed mine, the sensation was so cold that it burned and I snatched back my hand instinctively. Christine looked surprised and then sorrowful, her pale brows knit above those unearthly eyes. I wondered of this is what literary death is- beautiful, poignant and cold.

Christine sighed, and sank down, her tiny feet finally touching the floor, her hair and white funeral dress suspended in the air as if it were water, floating around her until they gently settled as she stood before me eye to eye. Sadly, she examined her spectral hands, turned them over, and sending tiny tendrils of mist into the air with every movement, "This is Erik's doing," she sighed, although he is not the first to murder the canon." She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if with a great effort and as she spoke, more mist drifted out of her mouth and dissipated in the warmer air, "Still he cannot destroy us entirely. Our ghosts endure and he cannot escape us, not as long as he is the Phantom of the Opera."

"Antoinette Giry, the false Giry, seems to think that Erik can bring characters back from the dead, if he wants to."

"He does not want to," Christine answered, her voice sounded both far away and as if she were speaking directly into my ear, "He desires love, not pity- and pity is all that I have to offer him." She concluded resolutely.

"But you were his great love," I began, "Surely…"

Christine cut me off with a wave of her hand, tracing a line of mist between us, "You of all people should know that love is more complex than literature. Erik truly loves, but he is also truly mad and must devalue and destroy all that he loves, including himself!"

"Well, I wish he'd get on with destroying himself," I replied tartly, "And save all of us the bother of it."

"Nothing is ever that simple," Christine replied with a shake of her head that set both the mist and her long, loose hair dancing in atmosphere, "Erik knows that he is the villain of this story, but the Sues have shown him that he can be a hero if only the author will allow it. It's been done before."

I searched my mind for an instance of any work of fiction where someone like Erik became the hero. I discarded several possibilities, because a novel doesn't truly live unless someone wants to read it, and most of the things that came to mind were the sort of thing that is cast aside and forgotten with three chapters. At last, something came to mind, "Like _La Belle et le Bête_!" I cried triumphantly.

"The parallels are obvious," Christine intoned, "If Erik makes the heroine his bride, then he becomes the hero of the story. Leroux's intentions will be turned upside down, and he will lose all control over the narrative forever. _The Phantom of the Opera_ will be Erik's story, for him to tell as he chooses."

"The why murder you?" I asked, "You're the heroine of the book!"

"Heroines are as heroines do," Christine answered. "I was always more the victim than the heroine. Even in the end of the book, it was Erik's choice that saved us all and not mine. It is that same choice that set him apart from other monsters and has given him the power to shape his destiny. Still, even as he once chose to let me live, he has now chosen to make others die and he must be stopped at all costs."

"That's easy for you to say," I told her, "When our manuscript is restored, you will return to life and to a happy ending. Love isn't the only thing that's more complex than literature."

"In death, I see and know more than I did in life," Christine sighed, "This time, I mean to make wiser choices. My strength fails me, but I will do what I can to help. You must listen carefully and do as I say if you want to save your friends." I started to say something, but once again Christine silenced me with a gesture. I noticed that the longer she remained, the more mist seemed to be rising off her into the air. It was as if she was carved from ice, and slowly melted as she spoke, yet her eyes remained vibrant, shining and clear. "I know what you want to ask, and surely you already have figured that out for yourself!"

She was right. I was certain that the Shade was in the torture chamber with the Persian. No one else would hide in the shadows like that. It seemed to be a habit he had formed while wandering the cellars under the opera house, along with a number of other antisocial behaviors that had stopped bothering me a lot sooner than I liked to admit. Antisocial or not, however, he was going to hear something about pretending to be dead, assuming that I had enough self-control to remember to tell him rather than throwing myself into his arms and babbling a torrent of lovey-dovey drivel.

"Erik already suspects Antoinette," Christine said, pulling my thoughts back to the present, "He is watching her. You must appear reluctant to follow her, and you must not recoil from Erik when he appears. Antoinette alone must bear the responsibility for her actions." I nodded assent, "Warn MegSue to escape as soon as she can. Erik has no more use for her, and he won't go after her if she doesn't attract his attention," this too was not unfeasible, "Erik will punish Antoinette. You must do nothing to interfere. Do you understand?"

I began to protest, but Christine continued, her eyes glowing intensely, "Antoinette made her choices and her plotline is sealed by the conventions of fiction. If you interfere, you will harm yourself and sacrifice your only chance to save your friends in the torture chamber. While Erik deals with Antoinette Giry, you must run back inside, through the room with his dolls. One of the panels on the wall will be ajar. It conceals the entrance to Erik's bedroom. Go inside and look to his dressing table where you will find the boxes containing the scorpion and the grasshopper. Turn one and you will release a secret drawer where Erik keeps his little bag and life and death, wherein he keeps the key to the torture chamber. Turn the other and the mechanism of the torture chamber will be engaged. Take care, only one can be turned and once the torture chamber begins its work, it cannot be stopped until its horror is complete and both your friends are gone!"

"But which is which?"

"That I cannot say, it is no longer my choice to make." Christine answered beginning to fade away.

"I could never have made the choice that you did. I cannot make it now!" I insisted. "Which one did you choose?"

"I chose pity, and in the end, Erik pitied me as well. Sometimes, compassion triumphs where strength fails."

"It's too much to risk!" I insisted, as Christine grew fainter. She was evaporating into the air.

"You must choose wisely", said Christine from far away, "I know you will, when the time comes…" and with that, she faded away entirely, leaving nothing behind of herself save for a prickle of cold in the air and a faint tracing of frost marking the place where she had stood. Absentmindedly, I pressed my burnt fingers to my mouth, but there would be no time to meditate on Christine's mysterious warnings or to desperately probe my memories of the last chapters of The Phantom of the Opera. I heard the click of a latch outside the door. Antoinette Giry had returned.


	47. The Siren Calls

**A/N: My apologies for the long hiatus. My fall operetta performances went well, so well that I ended up getting booked for two more singing jobs and a featured dancer gig that kept me far away from the computer until Christmas Eve. I'm not planning anything in the next months beyond a featured walk on role and a couple of concerts, so with luck, this story may actually be concluded within the next month or two. Many thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed and stuck with me through the long wait!**

Antoinette Giry appeared in the doorway, in all her insane glory, one hand clutching the key like it was a weapon and the other latched onto a figure in black robes that limped behind her. There was no suspense, I'd have recognized MegSue anywhere- not because she was blonde, not because of the injury that had deformed her face, but because she was the only person I knew who would wear a black druid robe over a fluffy tutu and could somehow make it look not entirely ridiculous. Also, MegSue was waving and pointing with her free arm, while mouthing something that might, or might not have been, "She's crazy!" over and over, which was also a tip-off. Only MegSue was sane enough to know that everyone here is crazy.

Too much relieved to think, I rushed forward to throw my arms around MegSue, only to find my way barred by Antoinette Giry and her sour expression. "You've forgotten the veil," she snapped. I didn't really think it mattered, given that we were escaping and all, but I suppose there was always a chance that we'd run into Erik in a corridor or something. She pointed at the dressing table, where the veil, complete with more lace and more crystals and more pink flowers was sitting in a heap.

I jammed the veil on my head, and followed Antoinette into the corridor. I didn't bother to examine the effect in the mirror, because I already knew what it would be. I looked like a sparkly, lacy meringue with pink flowers on top.

"You walk ahead," Antoinette told me, "and you stop lagging behind," she added to MegSue.

"I can't keep up," MegSue whimpered, "I think I've twisted my ankle."

"Nice try," replied Antoinette coldly, slipping her free hand into her pocket, where she exchanged her key for a knife. "Straight down the corridor, then make a left, and no games." I remembered Christine's warning that I should seem reluctant, but there would be no difficulty there. Antoinette Giry was very obviously prepared to use persuasion.

I walked straight down the corridor, glancing around for some sign of, well, something, but there was nothing to see. I couldn't even figure out which way we were going, or which direction I'd come from, nor were there any landmarks to guide me. There were no signs of the manuscript pages that I could have sworn must have fallen somewhere in the general vicinity, nor a single trace of the rats. There was no sound but the soft hiss of my skirts trailing on the floor, the rustle of Antoinette's black silk, the distinctive thud of MegSue's steps in her stiff pointe shoes and a faint sound of someone breathing but it could have been one of us, or so I told myself. As instructed, I turned left, and saw the music room, ahead of us. Behind me, Antoinette gave a warning hiss, so I stopped and waited.

Antoinette laid a finger to her lips, warning us to be silent, "From here, the two of you will go ahead and I will follow," she said in a low voice, "You're to go through the music room and out onto the balcony. Go down the stone steps, into the mist on the lakeshore. The mirror is by the wall, hidden under a tapestry. You can use one of the candlesticks to break the glass, there are plenty of them. Lift up the cloth, smash the glass and go through," MegSue and I exchanged a look and I hoped that she was thinking what I was thinking, we both nodded enthusiastically, "We must hurry. Remember, if Erik sees you, you have only yourselves to blame. I had nothing to do with this. I was trying to stop you." She flung MegSue towards me and gestured with the knife, her ice cold eyes glittering in the candle light. In the distance, I could have sworn that I heard singing, but so low and faint that I could have been dreaming it but MegSue grabbed my hand and squeezed, so I knew that she heard it too.

I tightened my fingers around MegSue's and wondered if we shouldn't try to run, but there was no way. After being tied up for days, MegSue could barely keep up with us walking much less trying to run. I put my arm around her waist and she sagged against me. In the distance, I could still hear the hint of a melody. "Erik…" I murmured to myself.

"Go!" hissed Antoinette and she started to brandish the knife, but something stopped her. She too could hear music in the night. Her face softened and she smiled. "Erik!" she sighed, and began to walk forward, as if in a trance.

"No, wait!" I cried, catching at Antoinette's arm as she pushed by me. I knew that I should let her go to whatever fate awaited her at Erik's hands, but if I survived this misconceived labyrinth of a plot, then I was going to have to live with myself. I couldn't let her go without at least trying to warn her.

Antoinette shoved me away, "Don't you hear him singing to me? He loves me! I must go to him…"

"But…" I began, the words trailing away because Antoinette Giry wasn't listening to me at all. All she seemed to hear was Erik. She rushed ahead and I followed after her, down the corridor and into the music room, where Antoinette stopped, as if she'd lost her way. I didn't see any sign of Erik, but he was most certainly there. I could hear his voice.

We'd come through a different entrance, than the one I remembered. All of the doors were concealed in the wall's gilt-edged panels. There could have been an infinite number of entrances and exits. I could see the grand piano to my left but no sign of any of the pages from Leroux's manuscript, even though I was certain that I had not taken them all and that I had dropped any number of them. Ahead of us, the little opera stages were much as I had left them, complete with Erik's little wax figures still scattered about on the _Don Juan Triumphant_ set. I guess he hadn't had any time to pick up his dolls. Directly ahead of me, one of the panels was ajar, just as Christine had promised it would be. So, that was Erik's bedroom, but where was Erik?

I felt MegSue's press my hand. "Erik's room?" she whispered and I nodded. You could see the black drapery through the opened panel and it was a dead giveaway. Then she tipped her head towards Antoinette who had slipped into a deeper, reverie. She was facing towards the balcony, where Erik was coming up the steps from the lake. He must have been guarding the mirror. I could hear the words of his song, all about darkness and caressing, but blessedly without all the metaphors about flowers and buds and flames which had pervaded _Don Juan Triumphant_'s purple prose. Clutching MegSue's hand, I began to edge around the room. If Erik was coming to us, then I wanted to make absolutely certain that I wasn't anywhere with his arm's reach, and that our path would not be blocked when it came time to move. In a low whisper, I began to tell MegSue about Christine's ghost but she shushed me, saying, "I already know. Christine isn't the only ghost around here."

No, indeed, Christine wasn't the only ghost. The Opera Ghost himself had finished his song and was ready to make his entrance.


	48. Monkey Business

I would like to say that I hung around long enough to at least attempt to save Antoinette Giry from her own stupidity or ragin

I would like to say that I hung around long enough to at least attempt to save Antoinette Giry from her own stupidity or raging libido or whatever it was that possessed her to wait for Erik like the proverbial lamb with no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. I'd like to tell you that I said something brilliant or meaningful and saw some flash of humanity in her that I hadn't seen before, but that didn't happen. It would have been nice if she had come to her senses long enough to lay the blame for her plight where it belonged- on Erik, and not on me. However, you may rest assured that whatever happens from here onwards, Antoinette Giry remained true to her own insane idea of herself as a sort of homicidal heroine. She walked towards the sound of Erik's voice with the knife held out before her, like an offering, neither knowing nor caring that it was not a good idea to betray a near-omnipotent lunatic and then hand him a sharp object. I'm just saying that had it been me, I would have run like Hell no matter how much I loved Erik.

I bolted for Erik's bedroom, hoping that I'd through the door and well out of sightlines before whatever was happening in the other room started happening. If nothing else, I was certain that it would be extremely dramatic and, hopefully, extremely time-consuming. Yes, I know that's not exactly charitable, but under the circumstances, you'd have felt the same way.

Anyone who has read _The Phantom of the Opera_ knows that Erik sleeps in a coffin. At some point, Christine Daaé goes waltzing into his bedroom to look at it, although why a woman with any sense at all would follow a lunatic into his bedroom is beyond me. Even with Erik safely out of the way, committing some new atrocity against the latest of his endless supply of disposable lovers, I didn't feel entirely comfortable about barging into the man's personal space when I had no intentions of being personal with him. One has one's limits, or at least, I do.

Not having seen Erik's original bedroom, I really couldn't tell you what it might have looked like, beyond whatever descriptions made it into Gaston Leroux's novel. I can tell you that the present incarnation of his sleeping chamber looked exactly like what you'd expect… if you happened to be visiting a courtesan who catered exclusively to mortuary fetishists. The walls were papered in black brocade and elaborated draped with black curtains. Black silk fringe and black silk tassels abounded. At the center of the room, Erik's coffin was more of a bier raised up on a dais and swathed in black silk with black embroidery and comfortably arrayed with black satin pillows. It was at once intriguing and disturbing. Under the right circumstances and given the right company, I would have been tempted to linger, although that's probably not something I should admit.

Stepping into the room, Erik's "bed" was directly in front of me. To the left, the flash of a mirror peeked coyly through the spaces between the heavy drapes. To the right, Erik's dressing table stood against the wall, the mirror broken away leaving only an empty frame.

The two boxes were neatly set on either side of the table, along with an interesting assortment of items that I am at a loss to explain. For example, there was a stack of legal documents that required various persons named Christine, some of them Christine Daaés and others with similar sounding names like "Danes" and "Daly" and "Day" to marry Erik, who had acquired a similar series of improbably names like "Destler" and "Renoir" and "Garnier" as he'd called himself lately for reasons that made absolutely no sense. Some of them were wills written by fathers who were clearly not in sound mind, and thus under the impression that their daughters were slaves in some heathen country. Others were contracts wherein Erik promised to save the farm or the business or what have you, in return for some sort of romanticized prostitution. It was mad stuff. I wished that I had time to do more than peruse a page or two while stalling for time.

The strange contracts were not the worst of Erik's collection of oddities, the whole crazy display was topped off with the creepiest looking ornament I had ever seen. It was a sort of music box with a leering monkey on the top of it that for an unpleasant moment, I took to be an actual dead animal that Erik has dressed up and glued into place. Closer inspection revealed it to be nothing more than a doll, with beady glass eyes and a porcelain face. Erik's obsession with dolls is just not right. The stuffed monster leered over the other objects from his perch, brandishing a pair of cymbals and threatening to launch into a medley from _Don Juan Triumphant_ at the slightest provocation.

The two boxes were left unlocked and open, each containing a brass figurine- one a scorpion and the other a grasshopper, exactly as expected. I still hadn't the slightest idea which one was the correct one to pick or if there was any way to know which was which.

Scorpions are ugly and they have a nasty sting. Grasshoppers are considerably less unpleasant but that doesn't necessarily make them good. Neither struck me as having any especial symbolism that I could recall and even if I figured out which one Christine had selected, that wouldn't necessarily still be the correct choice. However, I didn't have time to do much thing, so I shut my eyes and spun around once and planned to reach for whichever ended up closest. I'm not saying that it was a good plan, but it was better than standing there like an idiot until Erik finished up whatever awful things he was doing. I'd already done that for more than long enough.

I shut my eyes and gave it my best shot, but when I stretched my hands out to make my choice, I snatched them right back again because the air around them was suddenly so cold that I could hardly feel my fingers. When I opened my eyes, I was gazing into the sober, saddened face of Joseph Buquet's restless spirit. He had appeared out of the empty space where a mirror should have been, his upper half hovering over the dressing table and his lower half nowhere to be seen. For a moment, I thought he was trying to help me make the right choice, but in fact, he was preventing me from making the wrong one. Both of his silvery, translucent hands were wrapped around the brass grasshopper, and as he held it, ice formed around the figure, freezing it into place. He fixed me with a look as if to say, "Can't you do anything right?" but said nothing, because all of his otherworldly energy was pouring into the barrier of ice and as it grew, he faded. His features slowly melted into a cold mist, leaving behind nothing but a chill in the air and a choice that was now as ridiculously simple as it should have been from the beginning.

I took hold of the scorpion and turned it. For a frightening couple of seconds, nothing happened, and I wondered if Christine Daaé's death hadn't affected her mind. What had happened when she turned the scorpion? Not a thing, if I remember rightly. Then, there was a click and a little drawer sprang from the bottom of the box and there was the key, just as Christine had promised. I collected it carefully, under the unpleasantly watchful eye of the monkey figurine and rushed to the mirror.

How do you put a keyhole into a mirror? You don't and there wasn't one. I pulled down drapes and ran my hands across every inch of glass that I could reach. I had a key and no idea how to make use of it. In retrospect, I should have asked Christine to tell me where the damned lock was instead of dithering on about grasshoppers and scorpions and things. How can a person unlock something that has no lock? I was near beside myself, and very much hoping that some other ghost might turn up to move things along, but ghosts never seem to be there when you want them.

I stepped back, to take one more look in case there was something I missed and that's when I saw it. For all his faults, Erik really is ridiculously clever. The lock mechanism wasn't in the mirror, but it was reflected in the mirror. And where was the lock, you might ask? Where else but right smack in the center of that godawful music box with the hideous monkey- I had looked directly at it without really seeing it.

It's not unusual for a music box to have a key. You wind it up with the key and then it plays when you press a spring. I put the key in the lock, but when I wound the mechanism, it didn't start playing music- that would have been upsetting enough- no, when wound up, the monkey suddenly sprang into the air as if it intended to attack me. I ducked and covered my face, but the creature wasn't interested in me. It ran right past me to the mirror, leapt up and struck the glass once and then bounded back to its place, chattering at me and making all kinds of cheeky grimaces. If I hadn't been so very shocked, I would have smacked the stupid, cheeky monkey.

Behind me, a voice I knew well said, "Good lord, I thought you were never going to figure it out!"

If I hadn't been so very relieved, I would have smacked the stupid cheeky Shade.

**Author's note: Every time I promise to update more regularly, I end up with more singing work than I can handle. I'm not sure if that's a career strategy or a curse. So, I'll say that I intend to attempt to balance my time a little better, and hopefully if I get any last minute calls, they'll be for roles I know well already rather than stuff I have to cram. Much thanks to everyone reading and reviewing because I'd get nothing written without you.**


	49. Across the vast glassy lake

"Well, if that's the way you're going to be, the next time you get yourself locked in a torture chamber, I'll leave you there,

"Well, if that's the way you're going to be, the next time you get yourself locked in a torture chamber, I'll leave you there," I told the Shade.

"I'm glad to see you too," said the Shade, smiling, which really makes it all both better and worse. I won't say that I threw myself into his arms, but that's where I ended up and it isn't as if anyone pushed me. I think I mumbled something about thinking the Shade was dead and wondering how he escaped, to which he replied that logic-defying traps always have extremely easy to find escapes for no good reason. It's one of the rules of that kind of fiction that the villains are always slightly more incompetent than the good guys, and Erik had certainly been playing the villain card of late.

"Do we really have time for plot exposition now?" asked the Persian and I really couldn't argue. I filled them in that we were headed for the mirror by the lakeshore, assuming we could get by Erik.

"Well, there's always that angry mob that Raoul was supposed to bring down here however many chapters ago," the Persian suggested, "I expect they'll be providing a convenient distraction any time now. It isn't as if you can have a final confrontation without one. They probably have torches and everything."

Personally, I don't find the thought of an angry mob, with or without torches to be particularly comforting, but hopefully Raoul would have things in hand. We slipped back into the music room and were sneaking towards the doors when suddenly there was a great cry followed by the figure of Antoinette Giry staggering into the room.

"Run!" I told the men, but in my heavy white wedding gown, I wasn't fast enough to evade Antoinette as she rushed towards me, collapsing at my feet with both hands clutching my lacy white train. I didn't realize she was bleeding until I saw the red marks against the white silk of my dress. On the one hand, more than anything I wanted to detach myself from the crazed woman, but on the other hand, she was mortally wounded and it seemed callous to abandon her. Given the right circumstances, I'm sure that I would have done the right thing, but circumstances are never what I'd like them to be. For one thing, Erik turned up almost on cue, and for another thing, Antoinette Giry started singing.

"Don't you fret…" sang Antoinette, reaching for Erik with one hand, and clutching my skirts with the other, "I don't feel any pain…"

"You know, I've never really liked that song," said Erik.

Antoinette began again, "Anywhere you go, let me go too…"

Erik sniffed, "That one's so overused."

"These wounds won't seem to heal…" Antoinette offered feebly.

"Ugh," said Erik, "I hate that emo crap."

Antoinette trembled, her strength beginning to wane, "And a song someone sings, once upon a December…"

Erik sighed, "Trite nonsense, I'm sure you can do better than this."

With her last ounce of strength, Antoinette raised her head and attempted to crawl towards Erik, as she began to sing, but the effort was too much for her, and all she managed before slumping to the floor was, "Oops, I did it again."

"Well, that's a shame," said Erik, "At least that song was original," then he held out his arm to me, "Come along my dear, there's an angry mob waiting for us by the lake."

I didn't see any other immediate options, so I took Erik's arm and he escorted me out onto his balcony. Erik's army of crazy would-be girlfriends was hovering around the shore of the lake. MegSue, the Shade and the Persian were nowhere to be seen, which I took to mean they'd been smart enough to hide. On the far side of the lake, Raoul had arrived with the mob as promised, and they had indeed brought torches, but the portcullis prevented them from reaching us. Beside me, Erik was near shaking with amusement. "Well, well, well," he said, "Look who's ringing at the door. I think we'd better let them in hadn't we. It's rude to leave our wedding guests waiting outside."

With a motion of his hand, Erik raised the gates to his lair and the mob surged forward… it surged forward a grand total of ten feet because there was no getting around the rather large and rather deep lake that separated us. Honestly, the best laid plans always seem to lead to these kinds of embarrassing snafus. "Oh dear," said Erik, "This doesn't seem to be going very well. I guess there was no point in opening the door after all," and with another wave of his hand, the portcullis came back down behind the mob of minor characters that had assembled in the hopes of taking back their novel. "Well, I don't suppose there's any point in ferrying the wedding cake all the way over there, so I expect they'll eventually settle themselves down and starve to death. Tsk, tsk!"

"You can't get away with this!" Raoul cried, shaking his fist ineffectually.

"Except for the part where I just did get away with it," smirked Erik, "but why so glum, little Vicomte? Or was it Viscometer, I always get them confused. You should be happy, because soon you'll be with your poor Christine. In a way, I've brought the two of you together, just like I always do and I'm setting you free, in a sense, just like I always do!" Erik laughed to himself.

At the name of his beloved, Raoul crumpled, "Oh Christine," he cried, "I have failed you again!"

"No, you haven't!" The ghost of Christine Daaé answered him. She appeared above him, hovering in the air, "This will all be put right and we'll be together again soon," she promised, stretching a cold, transparent hand down to gently stroke Raoul's cheek. "Be at the ready," she said, "Things are about to get interesting." Then she turned and fixed Erik with a look, saying, "I've had just about enough of you."

Christine Daae floated down to the lakeshore, her eyes fixed straight ahead and with a look of grim determination, she stepped out onto the lake. As she stepped, the water turned to ice beneath her feet, created a pathway of crystal rays behind her. Christine was creating a bridge across the lake. As she moved, the mist on the lake swirled out of her path, so that she glided along a mirror of black water dotted with burning candles that rose from the water.

At first, Erik was transfixed, but the pathway left in Christine's wake was too thin and delicate for a human being to cross it and Erik's alarm turned to amusement. He was certain that he still had the upper hand against his former love and constant victim. He couldn't take his eyes off her, but he didn't fear her and I was certain that he had some pithy remark in mind for the moment she reached the lakeshore below us. At the far side of the lake, Raoul and the mob were silent and on the near side, the horde of silly girls made a soft hum of sighs, gasps, moans and other suitably attractive expressions of amazement.

As Christine reached the shore, she looked up and she smiled as she took the very last step that completed her bridge of ice, and just as her foot touched the ground, she gave a cry and dissipated into freezing air so quickly, that Erik jumped back, pulling me with him.

"What is it with women and their silly drama?" Erik demanded angrily, but Christine Daaé wasn't being silly at all. She was building a bridge, but not for us. It was a bridge for the rats, and they came streaming across it by the hundreds, each one carrying a page of the original manuscript of _The Phantom of the Opera_. They flew across the bridge, eyes glittering and pages rippling, bringing the precious text of our novel to their master who stepped out of the crowd to meet them.

Leroux had told me that he'd hidden himself in his novel as a minor character who could wander the opera house and keep an eye on things. I hadn't thought to ask which character that might have been, but if it isn't obvious now, I'll spell it out. Leroux was the rat catcher, and anywhere he couldn't go, his rats could. It was the perfect disguise. There was not a sentence of text that they couldn't explore. Now, at last, Leroux was reclaiming his work, which meant that we didn't have much time to make our escape through the mirror, before being doomed to an eternity as under-developed minor characters.


	50. Fire and Ice

"Erik is not amused!" snarled Erik as the pages of the manuscript seemed to float into the waiting hands of Leroux. "Erik is running out of patience!"

I'd have been tempted to ask what, precisely, Erik was going to do about it, but that did not strike me as the wisest plan. Let's face it, our angry mob was still on the other side of the lake and his crazy mob was right in front of us and looking more agitated with every second that passed.

"What are you going to do? Are you going to read the sacred original text and send us back to the beginning again? Erik would like to see you try it when he has the first page in his pocket!" With a flourish Erik produced a sheet of paper and held it over his head. "Looking for this, my dear author?"

Inwardly, I slapped my hand against my forehead. Why hadn't I noticed when he tucked that paper into his pocket? If I'd only been paying attention, I might have snatched it back.

"I would think, that of all people, you'd be the most eager to return things to the way I wrote them," answered Leroux, and the flames of his lantern set a shifting pattern of light on his face that made him look like the very devil.

Erik cackled like a lunatic, "Oh yes, Erik loves living all by himself in the fifth basement. Erik loves losing his beloved time and time again to Foppy McFopperson and his heroic hairdo! Erik can't wait to get back to the original story which doesn't even have a clear genre because it was written by a two bit Gallic hack!"

"Be that as it may," said Leroux, "I would think that you'd have noticed by now that without a complete original manuscript, none of us are controlling the story. _They_ are!" He pointed to the mob of young ladies moaning after their beloved opera ghost, "Or perhaps you enjoy speaking in third person like a total dork."

"Erik is not speaking in third person like a total dork!" cried Erik, "Erik is in control! Erik is doing fine! Erik is... oh good lord, Erik is speaking in third person like a total dork. Which one of you is doing this?" He looked accusingly over the throng but they weren't exactly coherent.

"They've made you the star of the show, Erik," said Leroux, "but you must take the bad with the good. They all seem to think you're a good deal more insane than you ever were and then there's the matter of the ladies themselves. Tell me, do you enjoy having them around? Do you like giggling boyishly at their jokes or waxing poetic when they sing those insipid pop songs? They're slaves to their love of them, but you're a slave to their image of you. Do you want to live in an opera house that puts on imaginary operas and is run like a school for teenaged girls?"

"Erik can deal with it. Erik is just a fluffy puppy on the inside." Erik snapped back, but I could see that Leroux was getting to him. Unfortunately, he had yet to release his grip on my arm and the angrier he got, the more tightly he held on.

"What about the other side of it? Does Erik enjoy slipping drugs to unsuspecting Christines in order to have his way with them? Is Erik fond of coercing innocent young women into becoming his slave brides? Does Erik like watching his loves degrade and destroy themselves in the hopes of becoming his soulmate? I certainly never wrote you like that, Erik. I redeemed you at the end of the novel. I made you a being capable of growth and sacrifice. I must have done it rather well, or you wouldn't be so enduringly popular, now would you?"

"Erik… dammit, there Erik goes again… I have a better idea. If Erik is doomed to be a self-sacrificing villain in this book, then Erik and his bride will go to another book. I'm sure there are plenty of other fictional worlds out there where we can settle down and the rest of you can just puff away into a couple of overblown semi-operatic ballads and a footnote in the encyclopedia!" He started heading for the bank of the lake, dragging me and my lacy ruffles along with him. I dug in my heels, but you try getting any kind of traction in frilly little satin slippers. I could either run along behind Erik or skid along and running was easier.

"Not one more word out of you!" Erik snapped at me.

"I didn't say anything!" I insisted, which was technically three words.

"Yes you did," Erik insisted, pulling my down the stairs, which is not at all fun when you're trying to hold that many petticoats out of the way, "You said that you can't introduce an angry mob into the story unless you're planning on making use of them."

That actually is true. It's a time honored literary rule that you can't drag in an entire mob and then leave them standing around on the opposite side of a lake with nothing at all to do. Also, all mobs must have torches. I don't know why, but that's how it is. However, I was not the one who pointed it out. So, who had said it?

The ghosts of ChristineSue and Antoinette Giry were standing, or rather hovering, in the center of the lake. "We can't let you leave us!"

"We love you, Erik!"

"We'll set the mob on you if you try to run off with her!"

Does it even matter which one of them said what? Alright, it's pretty obvious since complex sentences were never ChristineSue's forte that Antoinette spoke first.

"Go right on ahead," said Erik, "I'm certain that my Punjab lasso is more than a match for that girl with pink hair or the one with the kitten ears or the absolutely barking mad one who sits in the corner threatening to cut herself all day long. Do you worst!"

"You understand that we're only doing this for love," Antoinette said.

"It's for your own good!" ChristineSue agreed.

Then the pair of them clasped hands and together they sank into the lake, which began to freeze from the inside out, until the entire surface was quite solid.

"Oh they meant that other mob," said Erik.

Well, the rule doesn't say anything about crazy, lovesick mobs. It should, but it doesn't. Of course, what do rules matter when a mob of canon characters are about to engage in bloody hand to hand combat with a horde of fans who've transformed themselves into perfect heroines? This sort of thing can't possibly end well. Think about it. A book can't possibly live unless someone reads it, and our literary canon was preparing to slaughter the avatars of our readers.

"You can't do this!" I shouted over the din of everyone else's shouting.

"What?" said Erik.

Actually, I was talking to the Shade who was about to bash Erik over the head with a gaudy candelabra- the things were everywhere. To his credit, he did step back, but only after making several gestures that I will not describe here because they were obscene.

"You're the title character of the book! The readers will listen to you. You have to call them off," I pleaded, "You have to stop this."

"Wow," Erik said, "You really haven't been paying attention at all, have you?" while behind him, the Shade was attempting to communicate in the internationally understood sign language for "Have you lost your mind, you batty twit?"

"I liked you better when you speaking in third person," I snapped, "You of all people should have noticed what a disaster ensues when the reader takes over and interferes with a story's canon. We've been running in circles for chapters trying to find some semblance of a plot. You can't let the readers kill the canon, but you can't let the canon kill the readers either. If not for them, we wouldn't be here at all. We're only real because they read our book and inject their own imagination into our story. We're at an impasse, because no matter who wins the fight, we all lose!"

"So what exactly am I supposed to do?" said Erik.

"You do what Leroux wrote you to do," I said, "You have a sudden change of heart and you do the right thing, saving The Phantom of the Opera and redeeming yourself in the eyes of the readers, including the ones whose avatars you murdered or locked up in dungeons or whatever else it you do for fun."

Erik's golden eyes narrowed suspiciously, "If," he said, "And I'm only speaking hypothetically here, if I decided to have a change of heart it would probably require a kiss and possibly more, depending on time and the reader's imagine."

Reader, I kissed him. I would also swear the man has more hands than an octopus which actually have no hands at all, but I'm sure you understand what I mean. Luckily, it was enough of a distraction for the Shade to walk right up to him and snatch the first page of the manuscript out of his hand.

"You know, I actually was going to give that back," Erik grumbled.

"Sure you were," said the Shade, "just like you were going to let me out of the logically impossible water trap."

"I would have gotten around to dumping you into the torture chamber, eventually," Erik snapped.

You know, I don't think the Shade ever did explain how he got out.

"No, need. There was a valve marked 'Pointlessly Simple Escape Route That Anyone Can Figure Out.' I don't know why you even bothered, really."

"Well, it's pretty effective against minor characters, actually. Kills them stone dead, especially the ones in red shirts, for some reason. However," said Erik, "None of that matters now, because Raoul isn't the only one who can think up an ingenious plane… plan. I meant, plan." Then he snatched up a tacky gold candelabra and smashed the mirror. Then, fast as a snake, he caught me by the waist and, half pushed, half flung me through the opened portal.


	51. Have we Said Goodbye

The other side of the mirror was a mirror, just sitting there in the middle of a field. I looked around quickly, just to be certain that I hadn't fallen into a worse mess than the one I'd left. I was quite alone, which nothing but grass nearby and a rather imposing looking stone ruin of some kind in the distance, which strongly suggested that I had not fallen into The Happy Adventures of Spot the Lovable Puppy, but I would worry about that later. The mirror was of more immediate interest because rather than showing my reflection, it was a window back into The Phantom of the Opera, at least for the time being. It was, however, a magic mirror, so it didn't have any sort of sound, so I rather had to imagine what people were saying.

The Shade and Erik were fighting again, this time with candelabras instead of swords, and from time to time they seemed to be saying things along the lines of "Have at you, foul villain!" and "Take that, you great git!" It was probably even less eloquent, but what can you expect from a pair of men trying to pound each other to death with the décor?

Meanwhile, Leroux had begun reading the first pages of the manuscript, "It was the evening on which MM. Debienne and Poligny…" Well, I couldn't actually hear him, but that's how the book begins, so that must be what he was saying. As he spoke, I noticed that the canon characters seemed to be swept away, one at a time. When the words of the manuscript were read, they immediately came true, which meant that very soon, the scenery itself would have to change. After all, the gigantic magical fairytale lair did not fit in with Joseph Buquet's tragic death in Erik's domain.

Raoul was heroically protecting MegSue from the hordes of other Sues, who had begun to panic and were running aimlessly through the lair. I pounded on the glass, shouting, "Send them out through the Convenient Entrance to Erik's lair!!" but you can imagine how effective that was, which is to say not effective in the least. I'm sure that I'd have looked like a complete fool had anyone been watching, which they weren't, or so I hoped. Since the mirror was broken, they couldn't possibly have seen me, but maybe they did hear me, because at last Raoul seemed to collect his wits and he gestured the Sues towards the exit. Then he tried to clear a path for MegSue, but she was shaking her head and dragging him in the other direction, towards the mirror. I think she must have decided that anything was better than being synched into her corset by a typographical error. Reluctantly, Raoul helped her towards the exit.

The Daroga had drawn his pistol and I think he was protecting Leroux. He certainly had his hand at the level of his eyes, so that was something. Erik did seem a little too busy to be punjabbing anyone but better safe than sorry, I suppose. The real ballet girls had all disappeared, including Meg Giry and the insolent little Jammes, so I think Leroux must have been reading about the incident in Sorelli's dressing room, when the corps de ballet arrived in a body, afraid that the ghost, who had several heads and could interchange them at will, was lurking in the corridor. It occurred to me that all of the opera's ghosts were actually gathered together in the lair, and not stalking abroad at all. There was the Shade, who lurks in the cellars and is barely spoken of, the ratcatcher with his flaming head, the mysterious Persian and Erik himself. Too many ghosts for one opera house, it's no wonder the place was always pure chaos.

I wondered why the Shade didn't leap through the mirror. He had plenty of chances. Every few swipes or so, he and Erik would pivot around, so that one or the other could make his escape but they were too involved in their fight to care. It disturbed me. Once again, I was pounding on the glass and crying, "You idiot!! " at the top of my lungs.

The ice on the lake had begun to crack. Well, there's nothing about ice in The Phantom of the Opera, now is there? It must have been melting from the bottom up because as the pieces broke apart, they began to bob precariously. The Daroga caught Leroux by the arm and began to steer him towards the shore, still with his hand at the level of his eyes, but struggling to keep his balance. Leroux read on. He must have reached chapter two because the Comte de Chagny had disappeared. I wondered if Christine Daaé had already returned to life.

MegSue and Raoul had just reached the shore and I jumped back as I realized that MegSue was about to come through the mirror- and she did come through, collapsing in a heap, because Raoul had apparently been tossed through right after her.

"Damn that monster!" Raoul cried. "He pushed me through just as I was about to be sent back to my box at the opera to watch Christine's triumph!" He turned and pounded on the mirror, but not for very long before the Shade crashed into him.

"What is wrong with you??" the Shade snapped, ever the charming one. "Get out of my way!" Then he looked around and said, "Dammit, I was really hoping we'd end up somewhere in the series about that lovable puppy."

"Maybe this is Spot the Lovable Puppy Visits the Picturesque Gothic Ruin," I suggested.

"Only if the author is really really short on ideas," said the Shade, "but wherever we are, I'm glad that you're here. You do love me, right?"

"Of course, I do," I said, "but we'd better not dwell on it or we'll end up in a different genre."

"No, I think this is very clearly a comic adventure of some sort," said the Persian, who had only just popped through the mirror. "Leroux pushed me through right at the end," he explained, "he said that someone need to fill in the last of the plot exposition."

"So, The Phantom of the Opera is saved and Erik is back where he belongs and everything is as it was?" I asked.

"Mostly," said the Persian, "They'll have new versions of those of us who left, who are pretty much the same versions as before only without all the character development. So you're a prissy diva, Raoul is heroic but a bit of a wuss and the Shade had no personality at all that we know of. As for the others, hopefully they don't even remember what happened."

"And Erik?" I asked.

"Well," said the Persian, "He was running around his lair giggling like a madman and speaking in third person when I left, but now that the mirror had closed," the mirror had indeed closed, and nothing could be seen in it but our reflections, "he couldn't possibly come through now and he'd have to have been exceptionally sneaky to slip out behind me and then to hide in this large open field with a mirror standing in the middle of it for no reason whatsoever."

If you ask me, Erik is indeed, exceptionally sneaky, but I decided to reserve that point for now. I didn't see him lurking around anywhere and I decided not to go looking for him. If he happened to be hiding behind the mirror, I wasn't going to peek around for him. I guess, I sort of hoped that he had escaped because I felt a little sorry for him. He really had seemed to want a happy ending for himself even if the way he went about it in the wrong way. However, I should point out that I didn't feel sorry enough to want to have anything to do with him, so I was happy enough when we set off in the opposite direction, leaving the mirror behind.

"So what happens now?" Raoul wanted to know. He was looking a little pale, like he'd just suffered a great shock. I was probably wasting my pity on Erik, because Raoul deserved it more. Of all of us, he was the one who wanted to stay in The Phantom of the Opera. After all, he was the hero and he would get the girl. MegSue was comforting him and it occurred to me that Erik simply couldn't resist that one last vindictive act against him. There was no reason to separate Raoul from his story, but Erik had done it nonetheless. What a complete jerk he was. I was a little angry at myself for pitying him.

"You know," maybe we should take a quick look behind the mirror, "just in case."

"If I know Erik," said the Shade, "even if he was there, he's long gone now."

"Erik had the potential to be the greatest of men," the Daroga said, "perhaps he'll find a new adventure where he can realize that potential. As for us, we can create whatever future we choose, within the confines of this author's literary conventions of course, so onwards!"

We all looked out at the forests and villages and scary gothic ruins in this wonderful new world and MegSue turned to me and said, "I still think Erik's a giant pile of crazy fail smothered in psycho sauce." I've always liked her.

THE END

**A/N: **

**Good lord, I don't want this thing to be over. **

**My deepest gratitude and heartfelt thanks go out to everyone who has read or reviewed. You support, impressions and constructive critique made it possible for me to finish this project- despite numerous delays due to my performing schedule. I have never completed a novel, even one as rough as this and I could never have done it without all of you. Every time I was ready to abandon the story, I'd think about the people who were reading along and that kept me going. This is a rough draft, which needs some considerable revision that I may or may not post here. I haven't really decided what I mean to do with this work, and I'm wondering if I could clean it up into something that could be published.**

**I did leave the door open for a sequel where Erik creates more mayhem in another famous novel in the public domain, which has a gothic-looking ruin in it. I haven't thought about it very deeply just yet, but I do have one or two ideas about it. **

**You can find my non-fandom writing projects, including fiction at my livejournal under the handle tytaniastrange. Finished projects are published under a friendslock but summaries, blurbs and outlines have been public lately. My current projects include a YA urban fantasy with a very cranky heroine, the over-involved saga of a bunch of vampires and my other phantom phanfic, Stars and the Moon, which probably won't be at all funny. **

**I think that's everything. I'll miss writing this story, but at least I have the fun of revising and polishing it!**


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